GIFT  OF 
A.   F.    Morrison 


1HTHE  POETICAL 
WORKS  OF  S.  T. 
COLERIDGE 


NEW  YORK,  THOMAS  Y. 
CROWELL  £  COMPANY, 

PUBLISHERS    jfc    ^ 


THE   POETICAL  WORKS 


OF 


S.  T.  COLERIDGE 


WITH  MEMOIR,  NOTES,  ETC. 


NEW   YORK 

THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL  &  CO. 
PUBLISHERS 


GIFT  OF 


« t    *• 


CONTENTS. 


JPAGE. 

LIFE 7 

PREFACE . .  23 

EARLY  PO^Ma 

Dedication  to  the  Reverend  George  Coleridge 27 

Songs  of  the  Pixies 29 

The  Rose 32 

Kisses 32 

To  Sara 33 

The  Sigh 34 

Genevieve 34 

Absence  ;  a  farewell  ode 35 

Lines  to  a  beautiful  Spring  in  a  VJllage 35 

Written  in  early  youth.    The  time,— an  Autumnal  Evening 36 

To  a  Young  Lady,  with  a  Poem  on  the  French  Revolution 39 

"  litated  from  Ossian 40 

lie  Complaint  01  Ninathoma 41 

Imitated  from   Ls  Welsh 41 

To  a  young  A£,S 42 

To  an  Infant 43 

Epitaph  on  an  Infant 43 

Domestic  Peace 44 

Lines  written  at  the  King's  A  rms,  Ross 44 

To  a  Friend  ;  with  an  unfhiiSuett  j  oem 45 

Lines  on  a  Friend  who  died  of  a  frenzy  fever 46 

Monody  on  the  Death  of  Chattertou 47 

To  the  Nightingale 50 

In  the  manner  of  Spenser 51 

To  the  Author  of  Poems,  published  anonymously  at  Bristol 52 

Ode  to  Sara 53 

To  a  Friend,  in  answer  to  a  melancholy  letter 55 

Composed  at  Clevedon  56 

-  Reflections  on  leaving  a  place  of  retirement 58 

To  an  unfortunate  Woman 59 

Lines  on  observing  a  blossom  on  the  first  of  February,  1796 60 

The  hour  when  we  shall  meet  again 61 

To  C.  Lloyd 61 

Religious  Musings 63 

The  Destiny  of  Nations 74 

The  Raven 86 

Time,  Real  and  Imaginary .87 

MQ3527 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

The  Foster  Mother's  Tale 87 

Lines  written  alter  a  walk  before  supper. .     89 

On  a  connubial  Rupture  in  high  life. . .    89 

On  the  Christening  of  a  friend's  child 90 

SONNETS— 

Sonnet  1     91 

On  a  discovery  made  too  late 92 

Sonnet:* ". 92 

To  the  River  Otter 92 

Sonnets 92 

Sonnet  <5 92 

To  Burke 93 

To  Mercy 94 

To  Priestley 94 

To  Erskine 95 

To  Sheridan  95 

To  Mrs.  Siddons 96 

To  Lafayette 96 

Composed  while  climbing  Brockley  Coomb 96 

To  Schiller 97 

To  Earl  Stanhope 97 

Composed  on  a  journey  homeward  : — on  the  Birth  of  a  Son 98 

To  the  Autumnal  Moon 98 

To  a  Friend,  who  asked  how  I  felt  when  the  nurse  first  presented  my 

infant  to  me 99 

Sonnet  20 99 

Sonnet  21 99 

To  Simplicity 100 

A  Couplet 100 

•  THE  RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER 101 

<  H lilSTABEL 118 

Part  1st 118 

Part  2d 124 

SIBYLLINE  LEAVES— 

I.  POEMS  OCCASIONED  BY  POLITICAL  EVENTS— 

•  Ode  to  the  Departing  Year.    132 

France.    Anode 136 

Fears  in  Solitude.  ...    139 

Fire,  Famine,  and  Slaughter 145 

II.  LOVE  POEMS— 

Love 147 

Ballad  of  the  Dark  Ladie 149 

-Lewti 150 

The  Picture ' 152 

The  Nitrht  Scene 15f, 

To  an  Unfortnnflte  Woman  at  the  Theatre 1-5.' 

Lim-s  composed  in  a  concert-room 15J 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

The  Keepsake 1(50 

To  a  Lady  with  Falconer's  Shipwreck 101 

To  a  young  Lady  on  her  recovery  from  a  fever 1G2 

Something  childish,  but  very  natural 1G3 

Homesick 1C3 

Answer  to  a  child's  question 164 

A  Child's  Evening  Prayer 1(54 

The  Visionary  Hope 1(55 

The  Happy  Husband 105 

Recollections  of  Love 100 

On  revisiting  the  Seashore 107 

III.  MEDITATIVE  POEMS— 

Hymn  before  sunrise  in  the  vjilp  of  Chamouni  168 

Lines  written  in  the  Album  »t  El  lingerode  in  the  Hartz  Forest  170 

Inscription  for  a  Fountain  on  a  H<:ath 171 

A  torn  bless  Epitaph 172 

-  This  lime-tree  bower  my  prison 173 

To  a  Friend  who  had  declared  his  intention  of  writing  no  more  poetry  175 

_To  William  Wordsworth 176 

The  Nightingale 179 

Frost  at  Midnight 182 

The  Three  Graves : .  184 

ODES  AND  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS— 

Dejection,  an  Ode - 191 

Ode  to  Georgiana,  Duchess  of  Devonshire 195 

Ode  to  Tranquillity 197 

Lines  to  W.  L 198 

Addressed  to  a  Young  Man  of  Fortune 198 

The  Virgin's  Cradle  Hymn 199 

Epitaph  on  an  Infant 199 

Melancholy 199 

Tell's  Birthplace 1 200 

A  Christmas  Carol • 201 

Human  Life '.03 

The  Visit  of  the  Gods 203 

Elegy 204 

The  Pang  more  s?iarp  than  all 205 

Kubla  Khan 207 

The  Pains  of  Sleep 209 

PROSE  IN  RHYME- 

Duty  surviving  Self-love .  211 

Song -. 211 

Phantom  or  Fact 212 

Work  without  Hope 213 

Youth  and  Age 213 

Day  Dream 214 

To  a  Lady. 215 

Lines  suggested  by  the  last  words  of  Uerengariiis 216 

The  Devil's  Thoughts 217 

The  Alienated  Mistress 218 


CONTENTS 


PAGE. 

Constancy  to  an  Ideal  Object 219 

Suicide's  Argument 220 

The  Blossoming  of  the  solitary  Date  tree 220 

Fancy  in  Nubibus 222 

The  two  Founts .  222 

The  Wanderings  of  Cain 225 

ZAPOLYA— 

Parti 23C 

Part  II 251 

REMORSE—A  TRAGEDY 310 

THE  FALL  OF  ROBESPIERRE— AN  HISTORICAL  DRAMA      .    382 

WALLENSTE.N  - 

The  Piccolomini 407 

Death  of  Walleustein 650 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS 

OF 

3.  T.  COLEKIDGE. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE  was  the  son  of  a  Clergyman, 
and  was  born  at  Ottery  St.  Mary,  in  Devonshire,  in  the  year 
1773.  He  received  his  education  at  Christ's  Hospital,  and  at 
Jesus  College,  Cambridge,  where  poetry  and  metaphysics  became 
his  favorite  studies. 

There  is  an  anecdote  related  of  him  at  this  period  of  his  life, 
that  on  his  leaving  college  he  enlisted  as  a  common  soldier  in  the 
dragoons :  of  course  he  did  not  remain  long  in  the  service.  It 
was  thought  that  his  then  democratical  feelings  made  fiis  officers 
willing  to  get  rid  of  him ;  it  is  a  fact,  he  could  not  be  taught  to 
ride. 

Upon  this  singular  fact,  however,  the  Rev,  Mr.  Bowles  com- 
municated the  subsequent  information  to  the  Times : — "  I  am, 
perhaps,  the  only  person  now  living  who  can  explain  all  the  cir- 
cumstances from  Mr.  Coleridge's  own  mouth,  with  whom  I 
became  acquainted  after  a  sonnet  addressed  to  me  in  his  poems ; 
moreover,  being  intimate  in  our  school  days,  and  at  Oxford, 
with  that  very  officer  in  his  regiment  who  alone  procured  his 
discharge,  from  whom  I  also  heard  the  facts  after  Coleridge 
became  known  as  a  poet. 

"  The  regiment  was  the  15th,  Elliot's  light  dragoons ;  the 
officer  was  Nathaniel  Ogle,  eldest  son  of  Dr.  Newton  Ogle,  dean 
of  Winchester,  and  brother  of  the  late  Mrs.  Sheridan  ;  he  was  a 
scholar,  and  leaving  Merton  College,  he  entered  this  regiment  a 
cornet.  Some  years  afterwards,  I  believe  he  was  then  captain 
of  Coleridge's  troop,  going  into  the  stables,  at  Reading,  he 


LIFE  AATD  WX:*<tfftfGS  OF  S.   T.  COLERIDGE. 


remarkedj  v/iptten.  ,au  the  .white,  wall,  under  one  of  the  saddles, 
\n  l^ge;pieAci,l-^ha.t'aoteVs,'the< following  sentence  in  Latin: 

'  Eheu!  quam  infortunii  miserrimum  est  fuisse  felicem!' 

Being  struck  with  the  circumstance,  and  himself  a  scholar,  Cap« 
tain  Ogle  inquired  of  a  soldier  whether  he  knew  to  whom  the 
saddle  belonged.  'Please  your  honor,  to  Comberback,' 
answered  the  dragoon.  '  Comberback  ! '  said  the  captain,  '  send 
him  to  me.'  Comberback  presented  himself,  with  the  inside  of 
his  hand  in  front  of  his  cap.  His  officer  mildly  said,  '  Comber- 
back,  did  you  write  the  Latin  sentence  which  I  have  just  read 
under  your  saddle?'  'Please -your  honor,' answered  the  sol- 
dier, '  I  wrote  it.'  '  Then,  my  lad,  you  are  not*  what  you  appear 
to  be.  I  shall  speak  to  the  commanding  officer,  and  you  may 
depend  upon  my  speaking  as  a  friend.'  The  commanding  offi- 
cer, I  think,  was  General  Churchill.  Comberback*  was  exam- 
ined, and  it  was  found  out,  that  having  left  Jesus  College, 
Cambridge,  and  being  in  London  without  resources,  he  had 
enlisted  in  this  regiment.  He  was  soon  discharged, — not  from 
his  dernocraticai  feelings,  for  whatever  those  feelings  might  be, 
as  a  soldier  he  was  remarkably  orderly  and  obedient,  though  he 
could  not  rub  down  his  own  horse.  He  was  discharged  from 
respect  to  his  friends  and  his  station.  His  friends  having  been 
informed  of  his  situation,  a  chaise  was  soon  at  the  door  of  the 
Bear  Inn,  Reading,  and  the  officers  of  the  15th  cordially  shaking 
his  hands,  particularly  the  officer  who  had  been  the  means  of  his 
discharge,  he  drove  off,  not  without  a  tear  in  his  eye,  whilst  his 
old  companions  of  the  tap-roomf  gave  him  three  hearty  cheers 
as  the  wheels  rapidly  rolled  away  along  the  Bath  road  to  Lon- 
don and  Cambridge." 

He  was  first  known  to  the  public  by  some  lines  inserted  in 
Southey's  'Joan  of  Arc  ; '  and  in  1796  he  published  a  collection 
of  poems  which  immediately  rendered  him  famous.  Some  of 
these  consisted  of  short  songs  which  evince  much  taste  and  feel- 
ing, though  rather  awkwardly  expressed.  In  this  volume  was  a 
piece  entitled  'Religious  Musings,"  which  contains  the  most 
original  and  sublime  thoughts,  although  they  are  now  and  then 

*  When  he  enlisted  he  was  asked  his  name.  He  hesitated,  but  saw  the  name 
Comberback  over  a  shop  door  near  Westminster-bridge,  and  instantly  said  his  name 
was  Comberback. 

t  Jt  should  be  mentioned  that  by  far  the  most  correct,  sublime,  chaste  and  beauti- 
ful of  his  poems  ,7»eo  -judicio,  '  Religions  Musings,'  was  writ' en  mm  infer  sylvas  academi, 
but  in  the  tap-room  at  Heading.  A  tine  subject  for  a  painting  by  Wilkie. 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  S.   T.  COLERIDGE.  9 

obscure  and  harsh.  He  soon  after  published  his  drama  of  '  The 
Fall  of  Robespierre,'  which  was  most  favorably  received,  and 
in  his  'Ode  to  the  Departing  year,'  and  his  '  Tears  in  Solitude,' 
1798,  which  shortly  followed,  we  shall  find  the  same  originality 
ot  thought,  with  increased  power  of  expression,  and  improved 
versification.  The  latter  piece  is  a  lofty  and  energetic  satire  of 
a  new  cast.  It  is  occupied  with  the  censure  and  reprobation  of 
war  and  the  vanity  of  glory,  and  is  animated  by  so  earnest  and 
just  a  spirit,  and  such  high-toned  language  and  intense  benevo- 
lence, as  to  entitle  it  to  a  very  high  place  among  the  poetical 
productions  of  this  country  : — even  the  obscurity  of  the  author 
will  be  found  to  have  totally  vanished  in  this  poem,  and  to  be 
replaced  by  the  most  vivid  and  clear  ideas.  The  manner  in 
which  he  embodies  atheism,  in  this  poem,  shows  a  truly  original 
turn  of  thought,  and  the  question  at  the  end  is  most  admirable. 

The  very  name  of  God 

Sounds  like  a  juggler's  charm;  while  bold  with  joy, 
Forth  from  his  dark  and  lonely  hiding-place 
(Portentous  sight),  the  owlet  Atheism, 
Sailing  on  wings  obscure — athwart  the  moon, 
Drops  his  blue  fringed  lids,  and  holds  them  close; 
And,  hooting  at  the  glorious  sun  in  heaven, 
Cries  out—'  Where  is  it  ?  ' 

Soon  after  this  he  was  introduced  to  Southey  and  Lovell, 
when  the  three,  with  an  enthusiastic  notion  of  reforming  the 
political  world,  proceeded  to  put  their  intentions  into  effect. 
They  commenced  at  Bristol,  where  Coleridge  delivered  lectures 
on  the  approaching  happiness  of^  the  human  race,  by  means  of 
republicanism.  These  created  *  a  great  sensation,  and  were 
received  with  great  applause;  but  on  his  leaving  Bristol  for 
other  places,  the  number  of  his  auditors  diminished,  nor  did  his 
writings  in  his  journal,  called  The  Watchman,  attract  much 
notice.  In  one  of  these  lectures  he  divided  readers  into  four 
classes.  The  first  he  compared  to  an  hour-glass  ;  their  reading 
being  as  the  sand — it  runs  in  and  runs  out,  and  leaves  not  a  ves- 
tige behind.  A  second  class,  he  said,  resembled  a  sponge — 
which  imbibes  everything,  and  returns  it  in  nearly  the  same 
state,  only  a  little  dirtier.  A  third  class  he  likened  to  a  jelly- 
bag — which  allows  all  that  is  pure  to  pass  away,  and  retains  only 
the  refuse  and  the  dregs.  The  fourth  class,  of  which  he  trust  id 
there  were  many  among  his  auditors,  he  compared  to  the  slaves 


I0  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  S.   T.  COLERIDGE. 

in  the  diamond  mines  of  Golconda — who,  casting  aside  all  that 
is  worthless,  preserved  only  the  pure  gem. 

A  very  experienced  short-hand  writer  was  employed  to  take 
down  Mr.  Coleridge's  lectures  on  Shakspeare,  but  the  manu- 
script was  almost  entirely  unintelligible.  Yet  the  lecturer  was 
always  slow  and  measured.  The  writer  gave  this  account  of  the 
difficulty :  that,  with  regard  to  every  other  speaker  whom  he  had 
ever  heard,  however  rapid  or  involved,  he  could  almost  always, 
by  long  experience  in  his  art,  guess  the  form  of  the  latter  part, 
or  apodosis,  of  the  sentence  by  the  form  of  the  beginning;  but 
that  the  conclusion  of  every  one  of  Coleridge's  sentences  was  a 
surprise  upon  him  ;  he  was  obliged  to  listen  to  the  last  word. 
Yet  this  unexpectedness,  as  it  may  be  termed,  was  not  the  effect 
of  quaintness  or  confusion  of  construction  ;  so  far  from  it,  that 
we  believe  foreigners  of  different  nations,  especially  Germans 
and  Italians,  have  often  borne  very  remarkable  testimony  to  the 
grammatical  purity  and  simplicity  of  his  language,  and  have 
declared  that  they  generally  understood  what  he  said  much 
better  than  the  sustained  conversation  of  any  other  Englishman 
whom  they  had  met.  It  is  the  uncommonness  of  the  thoughts 
or  the  image  which  prevents  your  anticipating  the  end. 

He  published  about  this  time  a  volume  of  poems,  which  met 
with  great  success,  and  put  him  in  possession  of  a  sum  with 
which  he  resolved  to  proceed  to  America,  and  endeavor,  in 
conjunction  with  his  friends,  to  carry  their  theory  into  execu- 
tion in  the  new  world,  by  the  name  of  Pantisocracy.  The 
design,  however,  was  broken  off  by  a  simultaneous  attachment 
on  the  part  of  these  enthusiasts  towards  three  sisters  of  the  name 
of  Fricker,  with  whom  the  respective  marriages  of  Coleridge, 
Lovell,  and  Southey,  soon  followed.  Having  nothing  but  his 
literary  attainments  to  depend  on,  Coleridge  soon  fell  into  pecu- 
niary embarrassments,  from  which  he  was  relieved  by  the  cele- 
brated Mr.  Wedgwood,  who  enabled  him  to  complete  his  studies 
in  Germany.  After  his  return  home,  lie  wrote  the  leading 
articles  for  the  Morning  Post,  translated  some  dramas  of 
Schiller,  and  accompanied  Sir  Alexander  Ball,  as  his  secretary, 
to  Malta. 

On  his  return  he  produced  a  tragedy  called  '  Remorse,'  which 
raised  him  to  a  much  higher  pitch  of  fame  than  any  of  his  former 
productions.  In  language  it  would  be  impossible  to  surpass 
it : — It  was  natural,  free,  forcible  blank  verse,  equal  in  some 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  S.  T.  COLERIDGE.  t| 

parts  to  Shakspeare,  and  interspersed  with  a  multitude  of  sub- 
lime thoughts  which  are  evidently  traceable  to  a  German  source, 
though  still  only  as  their  cause,  not  their  actual  birth-place ; 
that  is  to  say,  though  he  borrowed  hints  he  did  not  purloin  con- 
ceptions ready  formed.  This  play  is  a  poetical  study  for  its 
powerful  thought  and  excellent  expression. 

He  now  took  up  his  residence  on  the  borders  of  one  of  the 
lakes  in  Cumberland,  where  he  wrote  '  Christabel,'  in  which  he 
displayed  much  of  the  ridiculous  mixed Ifp^rith  a  little  of  the 
sublime,  much  of  poetic  wildness  with  a  great  deal  of  eccen- 
tricity. 

During  the  last  nineteen  years  of  his  life,  he  resided  at 
Harnpstead,  with  two  old  and  valued  friends,  to  whom  he  had 
endeared  himself  by  his  many  virtues ;  and  with  these  dear 
friends  he  breathed  his  last,  at  half-past  six,  on  Friday,  25th 
July,  1834,  and  was  interred  in  the  vault  of  Highgate  Church, 
on  the  2d  August. 

The  fatal  change  was  sudden  and  decisive;  and  six' days 
before  his  death,  he  knew  assuredly  that  his  hour  was  come. 
His  few  worldly  affairs  had  been  long  settled,  and  after  many 
tender  adieas,  he  expressed  a  wish  that  he  might  be  as  little 
interrupted  as  possible.  His  sufferings  were  severe  and  constant 
till  within  thirty-six  hours  of  his  end  ;  but  they  had  no  power 
to  affect  the  deep  tranquillity  of  his  mind,  or  the  wonted  sweet- 
ness of  his  address.  His  prayer  from  the  beginning  was,  that 
God  would  not  withdraw  his  Spirit ;  and  that  by  the  way  in 
which  he  would  bear  the  last  struggle,  he  might  be  able  to  evince 
the  sincerity  of^his  faith  in  Christ.  If  ever  man  did  so, 
Coleridge  did. 

We  believe  it  has  not  been  the  lot  of  any  other  literary  man 
in  England,  since  Dr.  Johnson,  to  command  the  devoted  admi- 
ration and  steady  zeal  of  so  many  and  such  widely-different  dis- 
ciples— some  of  them  having  become,  and  others  being  likely  to 
become,  fresh  and  independent  sources  of  light  and  moral  action 
in  themselves  upon  the  principles  of  their  common  master.  One 
half  of  these  affectionate  disciples  have  learned  their  lessons  of 
philosophy  from  the  teacher's  mouth.  He  has  been  to  them  as 
an  old  oracle  of  the  Academy  or  Lyceum.  The  fulness,  the 
inwardness,  the  ultimate  scope  of  his  doctrines  has  never  yet  been 
published  in  print,  and  if  disclosed,  it  has  been  from  time  to 
time  in  the  higher  moments  of  conversation,  when  occasion,  and 


12  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  S.   T.  COLERIDGE. 

mood,  and  person  begot  an  exalted  crisis.  More  than  once  ha-« 
Mr.  Coleridge  said,  that  with  pen  in  hand  he  felt  a  thousand 
checks  and  difficulties  in  the  expression  of  his  meaning ;  but 
that — authorship  aside — he  never  found  the  smallest  hitch  or 
impediment  in  the  fullest  utterance  of  his  most  subtle  fancies  bv 
word  of  mouth.  His  abstrusest  thoughts  became  rhythmical 
and  clear  when  chaunted  to  their  own  music. 

It  now  only  remains  for  us  to  offer  a  few  general  remarks  on 
his  poetical  productions ;  and  here  we  think  that  cold  must  be 
the  temperature  of  that  man's  mind,  who  can  rise  from  the 
perusal  of  the  poems  of  Coleridge,  without  feeling  that  intense 
interest,  and  those  vivid  emotions  of  delight,  which  are  ever 
excited  by  the  wondrous  operation  of  the  magic  wand  of  genius. 
To  those  whom  constitution  and  cultivation  have  initiated  into 
the  sacred  mysteries  of  song, — whose  mental  optics  have  often 
been  enraptured  with  the  delights  of  ecstatic  vision, — and  whose 
ear  is  tremulous  to  the  touch  of  those  harmonious  undulations 
which  fancy  pours  from  her  soul-subduing  shell ;  to  such,  the 
genius  of  Coleridge,  even  in  its  wildest  aberrations,  can  never 
be  listened  to  with  indifference.  Warm  admirers  of  his  powers, 
we  have  often,  however,  painfully  regretted  the  irregularity  of 
their  application.  We  regret  that  he,  who  was  so  capable  of 
raising  a  chastely  beautiful  Grecian  temple,  should  endeavor, 
seemingly  for  the  sake  of  being  the  founder  of  a  new  order  of 
poetic  architecture,  to  erect  a  grotesque  pagoda,  where  good 
taste  may  be  sacrificed  on  the  shrine  of  novelty.  We  regret 
this,  because  we  are  convinced  that  many  of  his  admirers,  mis- 
taking the  cause  of  his  powerful  influence  on  their  minds,  seize 
upon  the  grosser  and  reprehensible  parts,  a? objects  of  their 
applause  and  imitation  ;  and,  indeed,  it  requires  no  little  exer- 
cise of  reflection  and  nice  discrimination  to  convince  them,  that 
it  may  not  be  that  very  unsubdued  irregularity  of  thought,  and 
the  illegitimacy  of  expression  connected  with  it,  which  form  the 
spell  of  that  enchantment  which  binds  us  within  the  verge  of  its 
circle,  benumbing  the  faculty  of  reason  by  delivering  us  up  to 
the  empire  of  feeling;  and  while  we  listen  to  the  charm,  depriv- 
ing us  of  the  power  of  perceiving  the  incongruity  of  its  parts. 
We  must  add,  and  in  proportion  as  we  admire  and  honor  his 
genius,  so  we  lament  that  while  he  possessed  strength  sufficient 
to  march  forward  with  dignity  in  the  path  of  legitimate  excel- 
lence, unassisted  and  triumphant,  he  should  thus  have  wilfully 


LIFE  AND   WRITINGS  OF  S.   T.  COLERIDGE.  13 

strayed  aside  to  its  more  rugged  borders,  merely,  it  should  seem, 
to  form  a  track  of  his  own  ;  that  he  who  could  attune  the  muse's 
lyre  with  heavenly  concord,  should   descend  to  the  trickery  of  . 
pantomime  poetry,  if  such  a  term  can  be  made  use  of  to  express   I 
our  ideas  of  any  verbal  description  ;  a  term,  the  fitness  of  which    I 
we  shall  refer  to   the  judgment  of  the  reader  in  the  following 
lines : — 

And  the  owls  have  awakened  the  crowing  cock; 

Tu whit ! tu whoo ! 

And  hark,  again !  the  crowing  cock, 

How  drowsily  it  crew. 

Sir  Leoline,  the  baron  rich, 

Hath  a  toothless  mastiff  bitch; 

From  her  kennel  beneath  the  rock 

She  makes  answer  to  the  clock, 

Four  for  the  quarters  and  twelve  for  the  hour, 

Ever  and  aye,  moonshine  or  shower, 

Sixteen  short  howls,  not  over  loud ; 

Some  say,  she  sees  my  lady's  shroud. 

Is  the  night  chilly  and  dark  ? 
The  night  is  chilly,  but  not  dark. 

***** 

From  cliff  and  tower,  tu whoo!  tu whoo! 

Tu whoo!  tu whoo!  from  wood  and  fell! 

***** 
Five  warriors  seized  me,  yestermorn, 
Me,  even  me,  a  maid  forlorn. 

Christabel 

Took  the  key  that  fitted  well; 
A  little  door  she  opened  straight, 
All  in  the  middle  of  the  gate. 

We  have  so  much  to  talk  about, 
So  many  sad  things  to  let  out. 
So  many  tears  in  our  eye  corners 
Sitting  like  little  Jacky  Homers: 
In  short,  as  soon  as  it  is  day, 
Do  go,  dear  Bain,  do  go  away. 

That  he  sings,  and  he  sings,  and  for  ever  sings  he,— 
*  I  love  iny  love,  and  my  love  loves  me.' 

Revolting  as  this  is  to  our  pre-conceived  notions  of  excel- 
lence, could  it  be  proved  that  the  pleasure  we  have  felt  and  the    * 
improvement  we  have  received  from  the  poetry  of  Mr.  Coleridge 
arose  in  any  degree  from  what  we  consider  the  inordinate  pecu- 


I4  LIFE  AND   WRITINGS  OF  S.   T.  COLERIDGE. 

liarities  of  his  manner,  we  should  not  fastidiously  reject  the 
emotions  arising  from  recalled  ideas  of  delight,  because  of  the 
vehicle  by  which  they  were  conveyed  to  us.  We  do  not  avert 
our  eyes  from  the  animated  picture,  because  of  the  coarseness  of 
the  canvas.  It  is  so  often  our  lot  to  meet  with  dulness  and  insi- 
pidity, that  while  we  thirst  for  a  refreshing  draught  from  the 
springs  of  genius,  we  may  say  to  each  other,  with  Horace  : — 

•  Kum,  tibi  cum  fauces  urit  sitis,  aurea  quaeris 
Pocula  ? ' 

"We  are  far,  very  far,  also,  from  wishing  to  bind  forever  any 
operation  of  the  soul,  and  least  of  all  heaven-born  poesy,  in  the 
trammels  which  art  has  thought  it  expedient  to  coil  around  her. 
But  while  we  are  desirous  that  the  space  assigned  for  the  flight 
of  fancy  be  interminable,  we  only  rejoice  when  she  directs  her 
course  in  the  track  of  the  sunbeams.  We  remember  reading  of 
a  prince  who  offered  a  premium  for  the  invention  of  a  new 
pleasure;  in  like  manner  we  should  feel  ourselves  greatly 
indebted  to  the  man  who  could  charm  us  with  a  new  species  of 
poetry,  and  we  should  be  little  disposed  to  depreciate  the  source 
of  that  fountain  from  which  we  had  quaffed  so  grateful  a  bever- 
age. Our  pleasure,  however,  would  be  greatly  alloyed  by  the 
fear  which  would  naturally  arise  in  our  minds  on  reflecting  that 
when  once  an  enterprising  genius,  confident  of  his  own  strength, 
ventures  to  pass  the  boundaries  of  human  cultivation,  and  launch 
out  into  the  untrodden  wilderness,  he  may  draw  many  to  follow 
his  footsteps  who  cannot  boast  of  possessing  either  his  vigor  or 
his  resources.  Such  talents  as  Mr.  Coleridge  possessed,  never 
need  to  seek  for  notoriety  in  the  paths  of  singularity.  He  who 
can  sjfeak  well  has  no  occasion  to  make  use  of  violent  and  dis- 
torted gesticulation. 

We  grant  that  the  new  adaptation  of  terms,  which  may  con- 
vey a  strong  idea  of  any  object  or  essence,  distinctly  marks  the 
existence  of  real  genius.  When  Shakspeare  mentions  poetic 
inspiration  as  giving  to  'airy  nothings  a  local  habitation  and  a 
name,'  who  does  not  perceive  the  fitness  of  the  term  airy  to  bring 
to  the  mind  all  the  idea  of  a  being  too  attenuated  for  perceptible 
outline,  even  to  the  imagination?  Yet  air  is  a  palpable  sub- 
stance, and  cannot,  philosophically  speaking,  be  reckoned  an 
attribute  to  nothing :  but  here  poetry  speaks  to  the  fancy  as  it 
appeals  to  and  is  in  unison  with  our  first  and  natural  perceptions, 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  S.  T.  COLERIDGE.  15 

which  consider  air  as  nothing.  *  The  angry  cannon,'  « the  mur- 
muring stream,'  are  all  metaphors  borrowed  from  our  natural 
and  untutored  perception  of  things,  and  affect  our  imagination 
as  they  are  in  unison  with  our  associations.  The  cannon,  how 
ever,  is  not  angry,  nor  does  the  stream  really  murmur ;  yet  no 
terms  could  better  lead  the  imagination  to  the  burst  of  the  one, 
or  the  humming  noise  of  the  other.  As  we  said  before,  to  dis- 
eoyer  new^jo^  aid  If  njly^n  retold  terms,  which  may  recall  strongly 
the  ideas  of  objects  or  their  attributes  to  the  imagination,  is  the 
wort  of  genius,  and  the  true  mark  and  criterion  to  judge  of  its 
presence.  But  to  endeavor  to  heighten  description  by  the  ven- 
triloquism, if  we  may  so  call  it,  of  physical  imitation,  as  in  the 
lines  we  have  quoted  ;  to  try  to  awaken  our  feelings  by  the  force 
of  verbal  reiteration,  as  if  a  passage  to  our  minds  could  be  ob- 
tained by  overcharging  our  ears,  and  that  often  when  the  idea 
itself,  naturally  and  simply  expressed,  would  have  placed  the 
picture  in  a  much  more  advantageous  light,  can  only  show  the 
taste  and  the  judgment  led  astray  by  an  ardent  quixotic  desire 
of  novelty.  How  much  more  unmixed  pleasure  it  would  have 
afforded  to  have  marked  all  the  circumstances  connected  with 
the  poetical  ideas  we  have  quoted,  by  appropriate  metaphorical 
terms,  which  the  more  regular  materials  of  poetry,  culled  from 
heaven,  earth,  and  ocean,  can  supply. 

We  are  far  from  inferring  that  the  muse  of  Mr.  Coleridge  can 
only  appear  lovely  when  she  is  arrayed  in  that  garb  and  in  those 
colors  which  are  generally  worn.  '  We,  however,  assert,  that 
within  the  boundaries  we  should  prescribe  for  her  excursions, 
there  are  many  beauties  yet  undiscovered,  many  a  delightful 
isle  yet  untrodden,  and  many  a  blooming  flower,  which,  though 
it  lies  in  the  regular  path,  would  surprise  as  much  by  its  novelty 
as  charm  by  its  beauty.  We  are  thankful  we  have  no  occasion 
yet  to  invest  poetry  with  a  new  form  ;  she  has  not  exhausted  all 
those  bewitching  attitudes  in  which  may  be  placed  all  that  we 
have  so  long  and  so  ardently  admired.  As  a  proof  that  Mr. 
Coleridge  did  delight  the  imagination  while  he  satisfied  the 
judgment ;  that  he  did  bring  to  the  mind's  eye  all  the  treasures 
of  his  rich  and  elegant  fancy,  without  having  recourse  to  the 
trifling  earnestness  of  reiteration,  or  the  ludicrous  imitation  of 
sounds  foreign  to  the  human  organ,  we  subjoin  the  following 
beautifully  wrought  effusions : 


1 6  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  5.  T.  COLERIDGE. 

They  parted — ne'er  to  meet  again! 

But  never  either  found  another 

To  free  the  hollow  heart  from  paining— 

They  stood  aloof,  the  scars  remaining, 

Like  cliffs  that  had  been  rent  asunder; 

A  dreary  sea  now  flows  between, 

But  neither  heat,  nor  frost,  nor  thunder^ 

Shall  wholly  do  away,  I  ween, 

The  marks  of  that  which  once  hath  been. 

We  should  add  also  the  beautiful  '  Conclusion  to  part  the 
second '  of  the  above  Poem,  did  we  not  imagine  that  many  of 
our  readers  have  had  the  pleasure  of  perusing  it  so  often  as  to 
have  it  ever  mingled  with  their  most  delightful  poetical  recollec- 
tions. 

Very  few  passages  in  ancient  or  modern  poetry  are  equal  to 
the  following : — 

Hence!  thou  lingerer,  light! 

Eve  saddens  into  night. 
Mother  of  wildly-working  dreams!  we  view 

The  sombre  hours,  that  round  thee  stand 

With  downcast  eyes  (a  duteous  band!) 
Their  dark  robes  dripping  with  the  heavy  dew. 

Sorceress  of  the  ebon  throne ! 

Thy  power  the  Pixies  own, 

When  round  thy  raven  brow 

Heaven's  lucent  roses  glow, 
And  clouds,  in  wat'ry  colors  drest, 
Float  in  light  drapery  o'er  thy  sable  vest; 
What  time  the  pale  moon  sheds  a  softer  day, 
Mellowing  the  woods  beneath  its  pensive  beam: 
For  mid  the  quivering  light  'tis  ours  to  play, 
Aye  dancing  to  the  cadence  of  the  stream. 

Does  not  the  following  bring  to  the  mind's  eye  many  a  spot 
of  bliss  in  lovely  England  ? — 

Low  was  our  pretty  cot;  our  tallest  rose 
Peeped  at  the  chamber-window.     We  could  'hear 
At  silent  noon,  and  eve,  and  early  morn, 
The  sea's  faint  murmur.     In  the  open  air 
Our  myrtles  blossomed ;  and  across  the  porch 
Thick  jasmins  twined :  the  little  landscape  round 
Was  green  and  woody,  and  refreshed  the  eye. 
It  was  a  spot,  which  you  might  aptly  call 
The  Valley  of  Seclusion. 


LIFE  AND  WRITIXGS  OF  S.   T.  COLERIDGE.  17 

The  following  panoramic  view  is  in  the  most  beautiful  style 
of  poetic  painting  : — 

O  what  a  goodly  scene !   Here,  the  bleak  mount, 
The  bare  bleak  mountain  speckled  thin  with  sheep ; 
Gray  clouds,  that  shadowing  spot  the  sunny  fields; 
And  river,  now  with  bushy  rocks  o'erbrowed, 
Now  winding  bright  and  full,  with  naked  banks; 
And  seats,  and  lawns,  the  abbey,  and  the  wood, 
And  cots,  and  hamlets,  and  faint  city-spire: 
The  channel  there,  the  islands  and  white  sails, 
Dim  coasts,  and  cloud-like  hills,  and  shoreless  ocean, 
It  seemed  like  omnipresence!    God,  methought. 
Had  built  Him  there  a  temple :  the  whole  world 
Seemed  imaged  in  its  vast  circumference. 

And  we  cannot  conclude  these  remarks  without  observing  that 
however  irregular  he  may  be  in  the  versification  of  some  of  his 
poems,  however  harsh  and  obscure  some  of  his  ideas  may  ap- 
pear, however  indistinct  and  overstrained  some  of  his  metaphors 
may  be,  yet  take  his  poems  as  a  whole  they  can  only  tend  to 
cause  us  to  recollect  him  as  the  elegant  poet  of  truth,  of  nature, 
and  of  virtue. 

It  was  a  saying  of  Mr.  Wordsworth,  that  many  men  of  this 
age  had  done  wonderful  things,  as  Davy,  Scott,  Cuvier,  etc. ; 
but  that  Coleridge  was  the  only  wonderful  man  he  ever  knew. 
Something,  of  course,  must  be  allowed  in  this  as  in  all  other  such 
cases  for  the  antithesis ;  but  we  believe  the  fact  really  to  be, 
that  the  greater  part  of  those  who  7?-o.p-^«qi]y  visited  Mr. 
Coleridge  left  him  with  a  feeling  akin  to  the  judgment  indicated 
in  the  above  remark.  They  admired  the  man  more  than  his 
works,  or  they  forgot  the  works  in  the  absorbing  impression 
made  by  the  living  author.  And  no  wonder.  Those  who  re- 
member him  in  his  more  vigorous  days  can  bear  testimony  to 
the  peculiarity  and  transcendant  power  of  his  conversational 
eloquence.  It  was  unlike  anything  that  could  iBe^heard  else- 
where ;  The  kind,  the  manner  were  different.  The  boundless 
range  of  scientific  knowledge,  the  brilliancy  and  exquisite  nicety 
of  illustration,  the  deep  and  ready  reasoning,  the  strangeness 
and  immensity  of  bookish  lore — were  not  all ;  the  dramatic 
story,  the  joke,  the  pun,  the  mirth,  must  be  added — and  with 
these,  the  clerical-looking  dress,  the  thick,  waving  silver  hair, 
the  youthful-colored  cheek,  the  indefinable  mouth  and  lips,  the 

2 


• 


l8  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  S.   T.  COLERIDGE. 

quick  yet  stead}'  and  penetrating  greenish-gray  eye,  the  slow 
and  continuous  enunciation,  arid  the  everlasting  music  of  his 
tones, — all  went  to  make  up  the  image  and  to  constitute  the 
living  presence  of  the  man.  He  was  then  no  longer  young,  and 
bodily  infirmities  pressed  heavily  upon  him.  His  natural  force 
was  indeed  abated  ;  but  his  eye  was  not  dim,  neither  was  his 
mind  enfeebled.  '  O  youth! '  he  says  in  one  of  the  mos>i  exquis- 
itely finished  of  his  later  poems — 

*  O  youth !  for  years  so  many  and  so  sweet, 
'Tis  known  that  thou  and  I  were  one, 
I'll  think  it  but  a  fond  conceit — 
It  cannot  be  that  thou  art  gone: 
Thy  vesper  bell  hath  not  yet  tolled: — 
And  thou  wert  aye  a  masker  bold : 
What  strange  disguise  hast  now  put  on, 
To  make  believe  that  thou  art  gone  ? 
I  see  these  locks  in  silvery  slips, 
This  drooping  gate,  this  altered  size; — 
But  springtide  blossoms  on  thy  lips, 
And  tears  take  sunshine  from  thine  eyes: 
Life  is  but  thought;  so  think  I  will 
That  youth  and  I  are  house-mates  still.' 

Mr.  Coleridge's  conversation,  it  is  true,  had  not  latterly  all 
the  brilliant  versatility  of  his  former  years ;  yet  we  know  not 
whether  the  contrast  between  his  bodily  weakness  and  his  men- 
tal power  did  not  leave  a  deeper  and  a  more  solemnly  affecting 
impression,  than  his  most  triumphant  displays  in  youth  could 
ever  have  done.  To  see  the  pain-stricken  countenance  relax, 
and  the  contracted  frame  dilate  under  the  kindling  of  intellec- 
tual fire  alone — to  watch  the  infirmities  of  the  flesh  shrinking  out 
of  sight,  or  glorified  and  transfigured  in  the  brightness  of  the 
awakening  spirit — is  an  awful  object  of  contemplation  ;  and  we 
think  in  no  other  person  was  ever  witnessed  such  a  distinction, — 
nay,  alienation  of  mind  from  body, — such  a  mastery  of  the  purely 
intellectual  over  the  purely  corporeal,  as  in  the  instance  of  this 
remarkable  man.  Even  to  the  last  his  conversation  was  charac- 
terized by  all  the  essentials  of  its  former  excellence ;  there  was 
the  same  individuality,  the  same  unexpectedness,  the  same  uni- 
versal grasp ;  nothing  was  too  high,  nothing  too  low  for  it :  it 
glanced  from  earth  to  heaven,  from  heaven  to  earth,  with  a 
speed  and  a  splendor,  an  ease  and  a  power,  which  almost 
seemed  inspired :  yet  its  universality  was  not  of  the  same  kind 


LIFE  AND  Wff  rTINGS  OF  S.   T.  COLERIDGE.  19 

with  the  superficial  ranging  of  the  clever  talkers,  whose  criti- 
cism and  whose  information  are  called  forth  by,  and  spent  upon, 
the  particular  topics  in  hand.  No  ;  in  this  more,  perhaps,  than 
in  anything  else  was  Mr.  Coleridge's  discourse  distinguished  : 
that  it  sprang  from  an  inner  centre,  and  illustrated  hy  light 
from  the  soul.  His  thoughts  were,  as  we  may  say,  as  the  radii 
of  a  circle,  the  centre  of  which  may  be  in  the  petals  of  a  rose., 
and  the  circumference  as  wide  as  the  boundary  of  things  visible 
and  invisible. 

A  few  days  before  his  death,  this  distinguished  poet  and 
metaphysician  wrote  the  following  impressive  letter  to  his  god, 
child.  It  is  the  last  letter  its  writer  ever  penned  ;  and  happy 
would  it  be  if  all  godfathers  so  well  applied  themselves  to  the 
dissemination  of  those  principles  which  they  undertake  to  incul- 
cate upon  the  tender  mind  : — 

'  To  Adam  Steinmetz  JSXnnaird. 

'  My  dear  Godchild, — I  offer  up  the  same  fervent  prayer  for 
you  now  as  I  did  kneeling  before  the  altar  when  you  were  bap- 
tized into  Christ,  and  solemnly  received  as  a  living  member  of 
his  spiritual  body,  the  Church.  'Years  must  pass  before  you 
will  be  able  to  read  with  an  understanding  heart  what  I  now 
write.  But  I  trust  that  the  all-gracious  God,  the  Father  of  our 
Lord  Jesus  Christ,  the  Father  of  mercies,  who  by  his  only-be- 
gotten Son  (all  mercies  in  one  sovereign  mercy !)  has  redeemed 
you  from  the  evil  ground,  and  willed  you  to  be  born  out  of 
darkness,  but  into  light ;  out  of  death,  but  into  life  ;  out  of  sin, 
but  into  righteousness,  even  into  the  '  Lord  our  righteousness ; ' 
I  trust  that  he  will  graciously  hear  the  prayers  of  your  dear 
parents,  and  be  with  you  as  the  spirit  of  health  and  growth  in 
body  and  in  mind.  My  dear  godchild  !  you  received  from 
Christ's  minister,  at  the  baptismal  font,  as  your  Christian  name, 
the  name  of  a  most  dear  friend  of  your  father's,  and  who  was  to 
me  even  as  a  son,  the  late  Adam  Steinmetz  ;  whose  fervent  as- 
pirations and  ever  paramount  aim,  even  from  early  youth,  was 
to  be  a  Christian  in  thought,  word,  and  deed,  in  will,  mind,  and 
affections. 

'  I,  too,  your  godfather,  have  known  what  the  enjoyments 
and  advantages  of  this  life  are,  and  what  the  more  refined  pleas- 
ures which  learning  and  intellectual  power  can  bestow,  and 
with  all  the  experience  that  more  than  threescore  years  can  give, 


20  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  S.   T.  COLERIDGg, 

I  now,  on  the  eve  of  my  departure,  declare  to  you  (and  earnestly 
pray  that  you  may  hereafter  live  and  act  on  the  conviction),  that 
health  is  a  great  blessing ;  competence,  obtained  by  honorable 
industry,  a  great  blessing ;  and  a  great  blessing  it  is  to  have 
kind,  faithful,  and  loving  friends  and  relatives  ; — but  that  the 
greatest  of  all  blessings,  as  it  is  the  most  ennobling  of  all  priv- 
ileges, is  to  be  indeed  a  Christian.  But  I  have  been  likewise, 
through  a  large  portion  of  my  later  life,  a  sufferer,  sorely  afflicted 
with  bodily  pains,  languor  and  manifold  infirmities;  and  for  the 
last  three  or  four  years  have,  with  few  and  brief  intervals,  been 
confined  to  a  sick  room,  and  at  this  moment,  in  great  weakness 
and  heaviness,  write  from  a  sick  bed,  hopeless  of  recovery,  yet 
without  prospect  of  a  speedy  removal.  And  I  thus,  on  the 
brink  of  the  grave,  solemnly  bear  witness  to  you,  that  the 
Almighty  Redeemer,  most  gracious  in  his  promises  to  them  that 
truly  seek  him,  is  faithful  to  perform  what  he  has  promised  ;  and 
has  reserved,  under  all  my  pains  and  infirmities,  the  inward 
peace  that  passeth  all  understanding,  with  the  supporting  assur- 
ance of  a  reconciled  God,  who  will  not  withdraw  his  spirit  from 
me  in  the  conflict,  and  in  his  own  time  will  deliver  me  from  the 
evil  one.  O,  my  dear  godchild  !  eminently  blessed  are  they  who 
begin  early  to  seek,  fear,  and  love  their  God,  trusting  wholly  in 
the  righteousness  and  mediation  of  their  Lord,  Redeemer, 
Saviour,  and  everlasting  High  Priest,  Jesus  Christ.  O !  pre- 
serve this  as  a  legacy  and  bequest  from,  your  unseen  godfather 
and  friend, 

S.  T.  COLERIDGE. 
13  July,  1834, 

G-rove,  Highyate. 

Mr.  Coleridge  wrote,  in  his  life-time,  his  own  humble  and 
"defection  ate  epitaph,  as  follows  : — 

Stop,  Christian  passer-by:  Stop,  child  of  God, 

And  read,  with  gentle  breast.     Beneath  this  sod 

A  poet  lies,  or  that  which  once  seemed  lie — 

O,  lift  a  thought  in  prayer  for  S.  T.  (  .— 

That  he  who  many  a  year  with  toil  of  breath 

Found  death  in  life,  may  here  find  life  in  death: 

Mercy  for  praise— to  be  forgiven  for  fam< — 

He  asked,  and  hoped  through  Christ.     Do  thou  the  same. 

It  was,  however,  inapplicable  to  the  place  in  which  he  was 


I 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  S>\  T.  COLERIDGE.  21 

buried  :  a-  handsome  tablet,  erected  in  Highgate  New  Church,  to 
his  memory,  bears  the  following  inscription  : — 

Qacrefc  to  tl)e  Dftemors  of 
SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE, 

4  Poet,  Philosopher,  Theologian. 

This  truly  great  ami  good  man  resided  for 

The  last  nineteen  years  of  his  life, 

In  this  Hamlet. 
He  quitted  '  the  body  of  his  death] 

July  25th,  1834, 

In  the  sixty-second  year  of  his  age. 

Ofhisprofound  learning  and  discursive  genius, 

His  literary  works  are  an  imperishable  record. 

To  his  private  worth, 
His  social  and  Christian  virtues, 

JAMES  AND  ANN  GILLMAN, 

The  friends  with  whom  he  resided, 

During  the  above  period,  dedicate  this  tablet 

Under  the  pressure  of  a  long 

And  most  painful  disease, 

His  disposition  was  unalterably  sweet  and  angelic. 
He  was  an  ever-enduring,  ever-loving  friend, 

The  gentlest  and  kindest  teacher, 
The  most  engaging  home  companion. 

*  O  framed  for  calmer  times  and  nobler  hearts, 
O  studious  poet,  eloquent  for  truth  ! 
Philosopher  contemning  wealth  and  death, 
Yet  docile,  child-like,  full  of  life  and  love.' 

HERE, 
On  this  monumental  stone,  thy  friends  inscribe  thy  worth 

Reader  !  for  the  world  mourn. 

A  Light  has  passed  aivay  from  the  earth! 

J3utfor  this  pious  and  exalted  Christian, 

'  Rejoice,  and  again  I  say  unto  you,  rejoice! ' 

Ubi 

Thesaurus 

ibi 

Cor. 

S.  T.  C. 


PREFACE. 


COMPOSITIONS  resembling  those  of  the  present  volume  are 
*<tt  infrequently  condemned  for  their  querulous  egotism.  But 
egorism  is  to  be  condemned  then  only  when  it  offends  against 
time  and  place,  as  in  an  history  or  an  epic  poem.  To  censure 
it  iw  a  monody  or  sonnet  is  almost  as  absurd  as  to  dislike  a  circle 
for  being  round.  Why  then  write  sonnets  or  monodies  ?  Be- 
cause they  give  me  pleasure  when  perhaps  nothing  else  could. 
After  the  more  violent  emotions  of  sorrow,  the  mind  demands 
amusement,  and  can  find  it  in  employment  alone;  but  full  of  its 
late  sufferings,  it  can  endure  no  employment  not  in  some  meas- 
ure connected  with  them.  Forcibly  to  turn  away  our  atten- 
tion to  general  subjects  is  a  painful  and  most  often  an  unavailing 
effort. 

But  oh !  how  grateful  to  a  wounded  heart 

The  tale  of  misery  to  impart — 

From  others'  eyes  bid  artless  sorrows  flow, 

And  raise  esteem  upon  the  base  of  woe ! — SHAW. 

The.  communicativeness  of  our  nature  leads  us  to  describe  our 
owii  sorrows;  in  the  endeavor  to  describe  them,  intellectual 
activity  is  exerted  ;  and  from  intellectual  activity  there  results 
a  pleasure,  which  is  gradually  associated,  and  mingles  as  a  cor- 
rective, with  the  painful  subject  of  the  description.  '  True  !'  (it 
may  be  answered)  '  but  how  are  the  public  interested  in  your 
sorrows  or  your  description  ?'  We  are  for  ever  attributing  per- 
sonal unities  to  imaginary  aggregates. — What  is  the  public,  but 
a  term  for  a  number  of  scattered  individuals?  Of  whom  as 
many  will  be  interested  in  these  sorrows,  as  have  experienced 
the  same  or  similar. 

*  Holy  be  the  lay 
Which  mourning  soothes  the  mourner  on  his  way.' 


24  "  PREFACE. 


If  I  could  judge  of  others  by  myself,  I  should  not  hesitate  to 
affirm,  that  the  most  interesting  passages  in  our  most  interesting 
poems  are  those  in  which  the  author  developes  his  own  feelings. 
The  sweet  voice  of  Cona  *  never  sounds  so  sweetly,  as  when  it 
speaks  of  itself ;  and  I  should  almost  suspect  that  man  of  an  un- 
kindly heart,  who  could  read  the  opening  of  the  third  book  of 
the  Paradise  Lost  without  peculiar  emotion.  By  a  la,w  of  our 
nature,  he  who  labors  under  a  strong  feeling  is  impelled  to  seek 
for  sympathy  ;  but  a  poet's  feelings  are  all  strong. — Quicquid 
amet  valde  amat. — Akenside  therefore  speaks  with  philosophical 
accuracy  when  he  classes  Love  and  Poetry,  as  producing  the 
same  effects : — 


'  Love  and  the  wish  of  poets  when  their  tongue 
Would  teach  to  others'  bosoms,  what  so  charms 
Their  own.' — PLEASURES  OF  IMAGINATION. 


There  is  one  species  of  egotism  which  is  truly  disgusting ; 
not  that  which  leads  us  to  communicate  our  feelings  to  others, 
but  that  which  would  reduce  the  feelings  of  others  to  an  iden- 
tity with  our  own.  The  atheist,  who  exclaims,  'Pshaw!'  when 
he  glances  his  eye  on  the  praises  of  Deity,  is  an  egotist :  an  old 
man,  when  he  speaks  contemptuously  of  love  verses,  is  an  ego- 
tist :  and  the  sleek  favorites  of  fortune  are  egotists,  when  they 
condemn  all  '  melancholy,  discontented  '  verses.  Surely,  it  would 
be  candid  riot  merely  to  ask  whether  the  poem  pleases  ourselves, 
but  to  consider  whether  or  no  there  may  not  be  others,  to  whom 
it  is  well  calculated  to  give  an  innocent  pleasure. 

I  shall  only  add,  that  each  of  my  readers  will,  I  hope,  remem- 
ber, that  these  poems  on  various  subjects,  which  he  reads  at  one 
time  and  under  the  influence  of  one  set  of  feelings,  were  written 
at  different  times  and  prompted  by  very  different  feelings ;  and 
therefore  that,  the  supposed  inferiority  of  one  poem  to  another 
may  sometimes  be  owing  to  the  temper  of  mind  in  which  he 
happens  to  peruse  it. 

My  poems  have  been  rightly  charged  with  a  profusion  of 
double  epithets,  and  a  general  turgidness.  I  have  pruned  the 
double  epithets  with  no  sparing  hand  ;  and  used  my  best  efforts 
to  tame  the  swell  and  glitter  both  of  thought  and  diction.  This 
latter  fault,  however,  had  insinuated  itself  into  my  religious 
musings  with  such  intricacy  of  union,  that  sometimes  I  have 

*Ossian. 


ns; 


PREFACE.  25 

omitted  to  disentangle  the  weed  from  the  fear  of  snapping  the 
flower.  A  third  and  heavier  accusation  has  been  brought 
against  me,  that  of  obscurity;  but  not,  I  think,  with  equal  jus- 
tice. An  author  is  obscure,  when  his  conceptions  are  dim  and 
imperfect,  and  his  language  incorrect,  or  unappropriate,  or  in- 
volved. A  poem  that  abounds  in  allusions,  like  the  Bard  of 
Gray,  or  one  that  impersonates  high  and  abstract  truths,  like 
Collins's  Ode  on  the  poetical  character,  claims  not  to  be  popular, 
but  should  be  acquitted  of  obscurity.  The  deficiency  is  in  the 
reader.  But  this  is  a  charge  which  every  poet,  whose  imagin- 
ation is  warm  and  rapid,  must  expect  from  his  contemporaries. 
Milton  did  not  escape  it ;  and  it  was  adduced  with  virulence 
against  Gray  and  Collins.  We  now  hear  no  more  of  it ;  not 
that  their  poems  are  better  understood  at  present  than  they  were 
at  their  first  publication ;  but  their  fame  is  established  ;  and  a 
critic  would  accuse  himself  of  frigidity  or  inattention,  who  should 
profess  not  to  understand  them.  But  a  living  writer  is  yet  sub 
judice ;  and  if  we  cannot  follow  his  conceptions  or  enter  into 
his  feelings,  it  is  more  consoling  to  our  pride  to  consider  him  as 
lost  beneath,  than  as  soaring  above,  us.  If  any  man  expect  from 
my  poems  the  same  easiness  of  £tyle  which  he  admires  in  a 
drinking-song,  for  him  I  have  not  written.  Intelligibilia,  non 
intellectum  adfero. 

I  expect  neither  profit  or  general  fame  by  my  writings ;  and 
I  consider  myself  as  having  been  amply  repaid  without  either. 
Poetry  has  been  to  me  its  own  '  exceeding  great  reward  : '  it  has 
soothed  my  afflictions  ;  it  has  multiplied  and  refined  my  enjoy- 
ments;  it  has  endeared  solitude  ;  and  it  has  given  me  the  habit 
of  wishing  to  discover  the  good  and  the  beautiful  Li  all  that 
meets  and  surrounds  me. 

S.  T.  C. 


EAELY   POEMS.— 1803. 


DEDICATION 

TO  THE  REVEREND   GEORGE   COLERIDGE,   OF  OTTERT 
ST.    MARY,   DEVON. 

Notus  in  fratres  animi  paterni. 

Hor.  Carm.  lib.  ii.  2. 

A  BLESSED  lot  hath  he,  who  having  past 

His  youth  and  early  manhood  in  the  stir 

And  turmoil  of  the  world,  retreats  at  length, 

With  tares  that  move,  not  agitate  the  heart, 

To  the  same  dwelling  where  his  father  dwelt ; 

And  haply  views  his  tottering  little  ones 

Embrace  those  aged  knees,  and  climb  that  lap, 

On  which  first  kneeling  his  own  infancy 

Lisped  its  brief  prayer.     Such,  O  my  earliest  friend  J 

Thine  and  thy  brothers'  favorable  lot. 

At  distance  did  ye  climb  life's  upland  road, 

Yet  cheered  and  cheering  :  now  fraternal  love 

Hath  drawn  you  to  one  centre.     Be  your  days 

Holy,  and  blest  and  blessing  may  ye  live ! 

To  me  th'  Eternal  Wisdom  hath  dispensed 
A  different  fortune  and  more  different  mind. — 
Me  from  the  spot  where  first  I  sprang  to  light, 
Too  soon  transplanted,  ere  my  soul  had  fixed 
Its  first  domestic  loves  :  and  hence  through  life 
Chasing  chance-started  friendships.     A  brief  while 
Some  have  preserved  me  from  life's  pelting  ills  ; 
But,  like  a  tree  with  leaves  of  feeble  stem, 
If  the  clouds  lasted,  or  a  sudden  breeze 
Ruffled  the  boughs,  they  on  my  head  at  once 
Dropt  the  collected  shower  :  and  some  most  false, 
False  and  fair-foliaged  as  the  manchmeel, 


28  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS, 


Have  tempted  me  to  slumber  in  their  shade 

E'en  mid  the  storm  ;  then  breathing  subtlest  damps, 

Mixed  their  own  venom  with  the  rain  from  heaven, 

That  I  woke  poisoned  !     But  (the  praise  be  His 

Who  gives  us  all  things)  more  have  yielded  me 

Permanent  shelter  :  arid  beside  one  friend, 

I,  as  beneath  the  covert  of  an  oak, 

Have  raised  a  lowly  shed,  and  know  the  names 

Of  husband  arid  of  father  ;  nor  unhearing 

Of  that  divine  and  nightly-whispering  voice, 

Which  from  my  childhood  to  maturer  years 

Spake  to  me  of  predestinated  wreaths, 

Bright  with  no  fading  colors  ! 

Yet  at  times 

My  soul  is  sad,  that  I  have  roamed  through  life 
Still  most  a  stranger,  most  with  naked  heart, 
At  mine  own  home  and  birth-place  :  chiefly  then, 
When  I  remember  thee,  my  earliest  friend  ! 
Thee,  who  didst  watch  my  boyhood  and  my  youth  5 
Didst  trace  my  wanderings  with  a  father's  eye ; 
And,  boding  evil  yet  still  hoping  good, 
Rebuked  each  fault  and  wept  o'er  all  my  woes. 
Who  counts  the  beatings  of  the  lonely  heart, 
That  Being  knows,  how  I  have  loved  thee  ever, 
Loved  as  a  brother,  as  a  son  revered  thee  ! 
O  'tis  to  me  an  ever  new  delight, 
To  talk  of  thee  and  thine  ;  or  when  the  blast 
Of  the  shrill  winter,  rattling  our  rude  sash, 
Endears  the  cleanly  hearth  and  social  bowl ; 
Or  when,  as  now,  on  some  delicious  eve, 
We  in  our  sweet  sequestered  orchard-plot 
Sit  on  the  tree  crooked  earthward  ;  whose  old  boughs, 
That  hang  above  us  in  an  arborous  roof, 
Stirred  by  the  faint  gale  of  departing  May, 
Send  their  loose  blossoms  slanting  o'er  our  heads  ! 

Nor  dost  not  thou  sometimes  recall  those  hours, 
When  with  the  joy  of  hope  thou  gav'st  thine  ear 
To  my  wild  firstling  lays.     Since  then  my  song 
Hath  sounded  deeper  notes,  such  as  beseem 
Of  that  sad  wisdom,  folly  leaves  behind  ; 
Or  the  high  raptures  of  prophetic  faith  ; 
Or  such  as,  tuned  to  these  tumultuous  times, 
Cope  with  the  tempest's  swell ! 

These  various  song*, 
Which  I  have  framed  in  many  a  various  mood, 


EARL  Y  POEMS.  29 


Accept,  my  brother  ;  and  (for  some  perchance 
Will  strike  discordant  on  thy  milder  mind) 
If  aught  of  error  or  intemperate  truth 
Should  meet  thine  ear,  think  thou  that  riper  age 
Will  calm  it  down,  and  let  thy  love  forgive  it ! 


SONGS  OF  THE  PIXIES. 

The  Pixies,  in  tne  superstition  of  Devonshire,  are  a  race  of  beings  invisibly  small,  and 
harmless  or  friendly  to  man.  At  a  small  distance  from  a  village  in  tliat  county, 
half-way  up  a  wood-covered  hill,  is  an  excavation,  caHed  the  Pixies'  parlor.  The 
roots  of  old  trees  form  its  ceiling  ;  and  on  its  sides  are  innumerable  ciphers,  among 
which  the  author  discovered  his  own  cipher  and  those  of  his  brothers,  cut  by  the  hand 
of  their  childhood.  At  the  foot  of  the  hill  flows  the  river  Otter. 

To  this  place  the  author  conducted  a  party  of  young  ladies,  during  the  summer 
months  of  the  year  1793  ;  one  of  whom,  of  stature  elegantly  small,  and  of  complexion 
colorless  yet  clear,  was  proclaimed  the  Fairy  Queen  :  on  which  occasion,  and  at 
which  time,  tLe  following  irregular  ode  was  written. 

I. 

WHOM  the  untaught  shepherds  call 

PIXIES  in  their  madrigal, 
Fancy's  children,  here  we  dwell : 

Welcome,  ladies  !  to  our  cell. 
Here  the  wren  of  softest  note 

Builds  its  nest  and  warbles  well  ; 
Here  the  blackbird  strains  his  throat : 

Welcome,  ladies  !  to  our  cell. 

II. 

When  fades  the  moon  all  shadowy-pale, 
And  scuds  the  cloud  before  the  gale, 
Ere  morn  with  living  gems  bedight 
Streaks  the  east  with  purple  light, 
We  sip  the  furze-flower's  fragrant  dews, 
Clad  in  robes  of  rainbow  hues 
Richer  than  the  deepened  bloom 
That  glows  on  summer's  scented  plume; 
Or  spoxt  amid  the  rosy  gleam 
Soothed  by  the  distant-tinkling  team, 
While  lusty  labor  scouting  sorrow 
Bids  the  dame  a  glad  good-morrow, 
Who  jogs  th'  accustomed  road  along, 
And  paces  cheery  to  her  cheering  song. 

nr. 

But  not  our  filmy  pinion 
We  scorch  amid  the  blaze  of  day, 
When  noontide's  fiery-treseed  minion 
Flashes  the  fervid  ray. 


COLERIDGKS  POEMS. 


Aye  from  the  sultry  heat 

We  to  the  cave  retreat, 
O'ercanopied  by  huge  roots  intertwined 
With  wildest  texture,  blackened  o'er  with  age : 
Round  them  their  mantle  green  the  ivies  bind, 

Beneath  whose  foliage  pale 

Fanned  by  the  unfrequent  gale 
We  shield  us  from  the  tyrant's  mid-day  rage. 

IV. 

Thither,  while  the  murm'ring  throng 
Of  wild-bees  hum  their  drowsy  song, 
.  By  indolence  and  fancy  brought, 
A  youthful  bard,   '  unknown  to  fame/ 
Woos  the  queen  of  solemn  thought, 
And  heaves  the  gentle  mis'ry  of  a  sigh 

Gazing  with  tearful  eye, 
As  round  our  sandy  grot  appear 
Many  a  rudely  sculptured  name 

To  pensive  mem'ry  dear  ! 
Weaving  gay  dreams  of  sunny-tinctured  hue 

We  glance  before  his  view  : 

O'er  his  hushed  soul  our  soothing  witch'ries  shed, 
And  twine  our  fairy  garlands  round  his  head. 

v. 

When  evening's  dusky  car 
Crowned  with  her  dewy  star 
Steals  o'er  the  fading  sky  in  shadowy  flight ; 
On  leaves  of  aspen  trees 
We  tremble  to  the  breeze, 
Veiled  from  the  grosser  ken  of  mortal  sight, 

Or,  haply,  at  the  visionary  hour, 
Along  our  wild  sequestered  walk, 
We  listen  to  th'  enamoured  rustic's  talk ; 
Heave  with  the  heavings  of  the  maiden's  breast, 
Where  young-eyed  loves  have  built  their  turtle  nest; 

Or  guide  of  soul-subduing  power 
Th'  electric  flash,  that  from  the  melting  eye 
Darts  the  fond  question  and  the  soft  reply. 

VI. 

Or  thro'  the  mystic  ringlets  of  the  vale 
We  flash  our  fairy  feet  in  gamesome  prank  ; 
Or,  silent-sandalled,  pay  our  defter  court 
Circling  the  spirit  of  the  western  gale, 
Where,  wearied  with  his  flower-caressing  sport, 
Supine  he  slumbers  on  a  violet  bank  ; 


EARLY  POEMS. 


Then  with  quaint  music  hymn  the  parting  gleam, 
By  lonely  Otter's  sleep-persuading  stream  ; 
Or  where  his  wave  with  loud  unquiet  song 
Dashed  o'er  the  rocky  channel  froths  along  ; 
Or  where,  his  silver  waters  smoothed  to  rest, 
The  tall  tree's  shadow  sleeps  upon  his  breast. 

VII. 

Hence  !  thou  lingerer,  light ! 

Eve  saddens  into  night. 
Mother  of  wildly-working  dreams  !  we  view 
The  sombre  hours,  that  round  thee  stand 
With  down-cast  eyes  (a  duteous  band  !) 
Their  dark  robes  dripping  with  the  heavy  dew. 

Sorceress  of  the  ebon  throne  ! 

Thy  power  the  Pixies  own, 

When  round  thy  raven  brow 

Heaven's  lucent  roses  glow, 
And  clouds,  in  wat'ry  colors  drest, 
Float  in  light  drapery  o'er  thy  sable  vest ; 
What  time  the  pale  moon  sheds  a  softer  day, 
Mellowing  the  woods  beneath  its  pensive  beam  : 
For  mid  the  quiv'ririg  light  'tis  ours  to  play, 
Aye  dancing  to  the  cadence  of  the  stream. 

VIII. 

Welcome,  ladies  !  to  the  cell, 
Where  the  blameless  Pixies  dwell, 
But  thou,  sweet  nymph  !  proclaimed  our  fairy  queen, 
With  what  obeisance  meet 
Thy  presence  shall  we  greet  ? 
For  lo  !  attendant  on  thy  steps  are  seen 
Graceful  ease  in  artless  stole, 
And  white-robed  purity  of  soul, 
With  honor's  softer  mien  : 
Mirth  of  the  loosely-flowing  hair, 
And  meek-eyed  pity  eloquently  fair, 

Whose  tearful  cheeks  are  lovely  to  the  view* 
As  snow-drop  wet  with  dew. 

IX. 

tlnboastful  Maid  !  tho'  now  the  lily  pale 
Transparent  grace  thy  beauties  meek  ; 
Yet  ere  again  along  th'  iinpurpling  vale, 
The  purpling  vale  and  elfin-haunted  grove, 
Young  Zephyr  his  fresh  flowers  profusely  throws, 

We'll  tinge  with  livelier  hues  thy  cheek  ; 
And  haply  from  the  nectar-breathing  rose 
Extract  a  blush  for  love ! 


3 2  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


THE  ROSE. 

As  late  each  flower  that  sweetest  blows 
I  plucked,  the  garden's  pride  ! 

Within  the  petals  of  a  rose 
A  sleeping  Love  I  spied. 

Around  his  brows  a  beamy  wreath 

Of  many  a  lucent  hue  ; 
All  purple  glowed  his  cheek,  beneath, 

Inebriate  with  dew. 

I  softly  seized  th'  unguarded  power, 

Nor  scared  his  balmy  rest ; 
And  placed  him,  caged  within  the  flower, 

On  spotless  Sara's  breast. 

But  when  unweeting  of  the  guile 

Awoke  the  pris'ner  sweet, 
He  struggled  to  escape  awhile 

And  stamped  his  fairy  feet. 

Ah  !  soon  the  soul-entrancing  sight 

Subdued  th'  impatient  boy  ! 
He  gazed  !  he  thrilled  with  deep  delight  I 

Then  clapped  his  wings  for  joy. 

And  oh  !  he  cried — '  Of  magic  kind 
What  charms  this  throne  endear  I 

Some  other  Love  let  Venus  find — 
I'll  fix  my  empire  here.' 


KISSES. 

CUPID,  if  storying*  legends  tell  aright, 

Once  framed  a  rich  elixir  of  delight. 

A  chalice  o'er  love-kindled  flames  he  fixed, 

And  in  it  nectar  and  ambrosia  mixed  : 

With  these  the  magic  dews  which  evening  brings, 

Brushed  from  the  Idalian  star  by  fairy  wings  : 

Effinxit  quondam  blandum  meditata  !  Decussos  violae  foliis  admiscet  odores 


laborem 

Bneia  lasciva  Cypria  diva  manu. 
Arnbn .sin-  succos  occultH  teinperat  arte, 


Et  spolia  jestivis  plurinm  rapta  rosis. 

Addit  et  illecebras  et  mille  et  niille  lepores, 

Kt  quot  acidalius  gaudia  cestus  habet. 


Fragran?que      infuso     net-tare     tingit   Ex   his  eompoeuit  dea  basia  ;    et  omnic; 


opus.  [ohm 

Sufflcit  et  partem  mellis,  quod  subdolus 
Non  irapuue  favis  «urripiiie»«t  amor. 


libans 

luvenias  nitidae  sparsa  per  ora  Cloes. 
Carm.  Quad.  Tol.i 


EARLY  POEMS.  33 


Each  tender  pledge  of  sacred  faith  he  joined, 

Each  gentler  pleasure  of  th'  unspotted  mind — 

Day-dreams,  whose  tints  with  sportive  brightness  glow, 

And  hope,  the  blameless  parasite  of  woe. 

The  eyeless  chemist  heard  the  process  rise, 

The  steamy  chalice  bubbled  up  in  sighs  ; 

Sweet  sounds  transpired   as  when  the  enamoured  do  78 

Pours  the  soft  murmuring  of  responsive  love. 

The  finished  work  might  envy  vainly  blame, 

And  '  kisses '  was  the  precious  compound's  name. 

With  half,  the  god  his  Cyprian  mother  blest, 

Arid  breathed  on  Sara's  lovelier  lips  the  rest. 


TO  SARA. 

ONE  kiss,  dear  maid !  1  said  and  sighed- 
Your  scorn  the  little  boon  denied. 
Ah  why  refuse  the  blameless  bliss  ? 
Can  danger  lurk  within  a  kiss  ? 

Yon  viewless  wand'rer  of  the  vale, 
The  spirit  of  the  western  gale, 
At  morning's  break,  at  evening's 
Inhales  the  sweetness  of  the  rose. 
And  hovers  o'er  th'  uninjured  bloom 
Sighing  back  the  soft  perfume. 
Vigor  to  the  zephyr's  wing 
Her  nectar- breathing  kisses  fling; 
And  he  the  glitter  of  the  dew 
Scatters  on  the  rose's  hue. 
Bashful,  lo !  she  bends  her  head, 
And  darts  a  blush  of  deeper  red ! 

Too  well  those  lovely  lips  disclose 
The  triumphs  of  the  op'ning  rose  : 
O  fair  !  O  graceful  !  bid  them  prove 
As  passive  to  the  breath  of  love. 
In  tender  accents,  faint  and  low, 
Well-pleased  I  hear  the  whispered  '  Nc  !  ' 

The  whispered  '  No  ' how  little  meaxt  J 

Sweet  falsehood,  that  endears  consent  1 
For  on  those  lovely  lips  the  while 
Dawns  the  soft  relenting  smile, 
And  tempts  with  feigned  dissuasion  coy 
The  gentle  violence  of  joy. 


34  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

THE  SIGH, 
i. 

WHEN  youth  his  fairy  reign  began, 
Ere  sorrow  had  proclaimed  me  man  ; 
While  peace  the  present  hour  beguiled, 
And  all  the  lovely  prospect  smiled  ; 
Then,  Mary  !  'mid  my  lightsome  glee 
JL  ueaved  the  painless  sigh  for  thee. 

n. 

And  when,  as  tossed  on  waves  of  woe, 
My  harassed  heart  was  doomed  to  know 
The  frantic  burst,  the  outrage  keen, 
And  the  slow  pang  that  gnaws  unseen  ; 
Then  shipwrecked  on  life's  stormy  sea, 
I  *_•;    v  Ld  an  anguish'd  sigh  for  thee  ! 

ill. 

But  soon  reflection's  power  imprest 
A  stiller  sadness  on  my  breast ; 
And  sickiy  hope  with  waning  eye 
Was  well  content  to  droop  and  die : 
1  y.  _.c.cd  to  the  stern  decree, 
Yet  heaveo  a  languid  sigh  for  thee ! 

IV. 

And  tho'  in  distant  climes  to  roam, 
A  wandeivr  from  my  native  home, 
I  feign  would  soothe  the  sense  of  care 
And  lull  to  sleep  the  joys,  that  were ! 
Thy  imags  may  not  banished  be — 
Still,  Mary !  still  I  sigh  for  thee. 

GENEVIEVE. 

MAID  of  my  love  !  sweet  Genevieve  I  * 
In  beauty's  light  you  glide  along : 
Ycur  eye  is  like  the  star  of  eve, 
/  »d  sweet  your  voice,  as  seraph's  song. 
Yet  not  your  heavenly  beauty  gives 
This  heart  with  passion  soft  to  glow  : 
Within  your  soul  a  voice  there  lives  ! 
It  bids  you  hear  the  tale  of  woe. 


•  This  little  poem  was  written  when  the  author  was  a  *oj. 


EARLY  POEMS.  35 


When  sinking  low  the  suff'rer  wan 
Beholds  110  hand  outstretched  to  save, 
Fair,  as  the  bosom  of  the  swan 
That  rises  graceful  o'er  the  wave, 
I've  seen  your  breast  with  pity  heave 
And  therefore  love  I  you,  sweet  Genevieve! 


ABSENCE.— A  FAREWELL  ODE. 

WHERE  graced  with  many  a  classic  spoil 
Cam  rolls  his  reverend  stream  along, 
I  haste  to  urge  the  learned  toil 
That  sternly  chides  my  love-lorn  song  : 
Ah  me  !  too  mindful  of  the  days 
Illumed  by  passion's  orient  rays, 
When  peace,  and  cheerfulness,  and  health 
Enriched  me  with  the  best  of  wealth. 

Ah,  fair  delights  !  that  o'er  my  soul 
On  mein'ry's  wing,  like  shadows,  fly  ! 
Ah,  flowers  !  which  joy  from  Eden  stole 
While  innocence  stood  smiling  by  !  — 
But  cease,  fond  heart !  this  bootless  moan. 
Those  hours  on  rapid  pinions  flown 
Shall  yet  return,  by  absence  crowned, 
And  scatter  livelier  roses  round. 

The  sun,  who  ne'er  remits  his  fires, 
On  heedless  eyes  may  pour  the  day  : 
The  moon,  that  oft  from  heaven  retires, 
Endears  her  renovated  ray. 
What  tho'  she  leave  the  sky  unblest 
To  mourn  awhile  in  murky  vest  ? 
When  she  relumes  her  lovely  light, 
We  bless  the  wanderer  of  the  night. 


LINES  TO  A  BEAUTIFUL  SPRING  IN  A  VILLAGE. 

ONCE  more,  sweet  stream  !  with  slow  foot  wand'ring  near, 
I  bless  thy  milky  waters  cold  and  clear. 
Escaped  the  flashing  of  the  noontide  hours, 
With  one  fresh  garland  of  Pierian  flowers 


36  COLERTLnSE'S  POEMS. 

(Ere  from  thy  zephyr-haunted  brink  I  turn) 
My  languid  hand  shall  wreath  thy  mossy  urn. 
For  not  thro'  pathless  grove  with  murmur  rude 
Thcu  soothest  the  sad  wood-nymph,  solitude  : 
Nor  thine  unseen  in  cavern  depths  to  well, 
The  hermit-fountain  of  some  dripping  cell  ! 
Pride  of  the  vale  !  thy  useful  streams  supply 
The  scattered  cots  and  peaceful  hamlet  nigh. 
The  elfin  tribe  around  thy  friendly  banks 
With  infant  uproar  and  soul-soothing  pranks, 
Released  from  school,  their  little  hearts  at  rest, 
Launch  paper  navies  on  thy  waveless  breast. 
The  rustic  here  at  eve  with  pensive  look 
Whistling  lorn  ditties  leans  upon  his  crook, 
Or  starting  pauses  with  hope-mingled  dread 
To  list  the  much-loved  maid's  accustoui'd  tread : 
She.  v.'iinly  mindful  of  her  dame's  command, 
Loiters,  the  long-filled  pitcher  in  her  hand. 
Unboastful  stream  !  thy  fount  with  pebbled  falls 
The  faded  form  of  past  delight  recalls, 
What  time  the  morning  sun  of  hope  arose, 
And  all  was  joy  ;  save  when  another's  woes 
A  transient  gloom  upon  my  soul  imprest, 
Like  passing  clouds  impictured  on  thy  breast. 
Life's  current  then  ran  sparkling  to  the  noon, 
Or  silvery  stole  beneath  the  pensive  moon  : 
Ah  !  now  it  works  rude  brakes  and  thorns  among, 
Or  o'er  the  rough  rock  bursts  and  foams  along ! 


WRITTEN  IN  EARLY  YOUTH. 
THE  TIME,— AN  AUTUMNAL  EVENING. 

O  THOU  wild  fancy,  check  thy  wing!     No  more     . 

Those  thin  white  flakes,  those  purple  clouds  explore  I 

Nor  there  with  happy  spirits  speed  thy  flight 

Bathed  in  rich  amber-glowing  floods  of  light ; 

Nor  in  yon  gleam,  where  slow  descends  the  day, 

With  western  peasants  hail  the  morning  ray  ! 

Ah  !  rather  bid  the  perished  pleasures  move, 

A  shadowy  train,  across  the  soul  of  love ! 

O'er  disappointment's  wintry  desert  fling 

Each  flower  that  wreathed  the  dewy  locks  of  Spring, 


EARL\  I'OEMS.  37 


When  blushing,  like  a  bride,  from  hope's  trim  bower 
She  leapt,  awakened  by  the  pattering  shower. 

Now  sheds  the  sinking  sun  a  deeper  gleam, 
Aid,  lovely  sorceress  !  aid  thy  poet's  dream  ! 
With  fairy  wand  O  bid  the  maid  arise, 
Chaste  joyarice  dancing  in  her  bright  blue  eyes  ; 
As  erst  when  from  the  Muses'  calm  abode 
I  came,  with  learning's  meed  not  unbestowed  : 
When,  as  she  twined  a  laurel  round  my  brow, 
And  met  my  kiss,  and  half  returned  my  vow, 
O'er  all  my  frame  shot  rapid  my  thrilled  heart, 
And  every  nerve  confessed  the  electric  dart. 

0  dear  deceit !  I  see  the  maiden   rise, 

Chaste  joyance  dancing  in  her   bright  blue  eyes, 
When  flrst  the  lark  high-soaring  swells  his  throat 
Mocks  the  tired  eye,  and  scatters  the  loud  note, 

1  trace  her  footsteps  on  the  acctist  oined  lawn, 
I  mark  her  glancing  mid  the  gleams  of  dawn. 
When  the  bent  flower  beneath  the  night-dew  weeps. 
And  on  the  lake  the  silver  lustre  sleeps, 

Amid  the  paly  radiance  soft  and  sad 
She  meets  my  lonely  path  in  moon-beams  clad. 
With  her  along  the  streamlet's   brink  I  rove  \ 
With  her  I  list  the  warblings  of  the  grove  ; 
And  seems  in  eash  low  wind  her  voice  to  float 
Lone-whispering  pity  in  each  soothing  note  ! 

Spirits  of  love  !  ye  heard  her  name  !     Obey 
The  powerful  spell,  and  to  my  haunt  repair, 
Whither  on  clust'ring  pinions  ye  are  there, 
Where  rich  snows  blossom  on  the  myrtle  trees, 
Or  with  fond  languishment  around  my  fair 
Sigh  in  the  loose  luxuriance  of  her  hair ; 
O  heed  the  spell,  and  hither  wing  your  way, 
Like  far-off  music,  voyaging  the  breeze  ! 
Spirits  !  to  you  the  infant  maid  was  given, 
Formed  by  the  wondrous  alchemy  of  Heaven! 
No  fairer  maid  does  love's  wide  empire  know, 
No  fairer  maid  e'er  heaved  the  bosom's  snow. 
A  thousand  loves  around  her  forehead  fly  ; 
A  thousand  loves  sit  melting  in  her  eye  ; 
Love  lights  her  smile— in  joy's  bright  nectar  dipe 
The  flamy  rose,  and  plants  it  on  her  lips  ! 
Tender,  serene,  arid  all  devoid  of  guile, 
Soft  is  her  soul,  a3  sleeping  infant's  smile: 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


She  speaks  !  and  hark  that  passion-warbled  song- 
Still,  fancy  !  still  those  mazy  notes  prolong. 
Sweet  as  th'  angelic  harps,  whose  rapturous  fails 
Awake  the  softened  echoes  of  heaven's  halls ! 
O  (have  I  sighed)  were  mine  the  wizard's  rod, 
Or  mine  the  power  of  Proteus,  changeful  god ! 
A  flower-entangled  arbor  I  would  seem 
To  shield  my  love  from  noontide's  sultry  beam  : 
Or  bloom  a  myrtle,  from  whose  od'rous  boughs 
My  love  might  weave  gay  garlands  for  her  brows. 
When  twilight  stole  across  the  fading  vale, 
To  fan  my  love  I'd  be  the  evening  gale  ; 
Mourn  in  the  soft  folds  of  her  swelling  vest, 
And  flutter  my  faint  pinions  on  her  breast ! 
On  seraph  wing  I'd  float  a  dream,  by  night, 
To  soothe  my  love  with  shadows  of  delight : — 
Or  soar  aloft  to  be  the  spangled  skies, 
And  gaze  upon  her  with  a  thousand  eyes ! 

As  when  the  savage,  who  his  dowsy  frame 
Had  basked  beneath  the  sun's  unclouded  flame, 
Awakes  amid  the  troubles  of  the  air, 
The  skyey  deluge,  and  white  lightning's  glare — 
Aghast  he  scours  before  the  tempest's  sweep, 
And  sad  recalls  the  sunny  hour  of  sleep  : — 
So  tost  by  storms  along  life's  wild'ring  way 
Mine  eye  reverted  views  that  cloudless  day, 
When  by  my  native  brook  I  wont  to  rove 
While  hope  with  kisses  nursed  the  infant  love. 

Dear  native  brook  !  like  peace,  so  placidly 
Smoothing  thro'  fertile  fields  thy  current  ineek  ! 
Dear  native  brook !   where  first  young  poesy 
Stared  wildly-eager  in  her  noontide  dream, 
Where  blameless  pleasures  dimple  quiet's  cheek, 
As  water-lilies  ripple  a  slow  stream  ! 
Dear  native  haunts  !  where  virtue  still  is  gay  : 
Where  friendship's  fixed  Ftar  sheds  a  mellowed  ray 
Where  love  a  crown  of  thornless  roses  wears  : 
Where  softened  sorrow  smiles  within  her  tears ; 
And  rnein'ry,  with  a  vestal's  chaste  employ, 
Unceasing  feeds  the  lambent  flame  of  joy  ! 
No  more  your  skylarks  melting  from  the  sight 
Shall  thrill  th'  atturu-d  heart-string  with  delight  :— 
No  more  shall  deck  your  pensive  pleasures  sweet 
With  wreaths  of  sober  hue  my  evening  seat. 


EARL  Y  POEMS.  39 


Yet  dear  to  fancy's  eye  your  varied  scene 

Of  wood,  hill,  dale,  and  sparkling  brook  between ! 

Yet  sweet  to  fancy's  ear  the  warbled  song, 

That  soars  on  morning's  wing  your  vales  among. 

Scenes  of  my  hope  !  the  aching  eye  ye  leave 
Like  yon  bright  hues  that  paint  the  clouds  of  eve  I 
Tearful  and  sadd'ning  with  the  saddened  blaze 
Mine  eye  the  gleam  pursues  with  wistful  gaze  ; 
Sees  shades  on  shades  with  deeper  tint  impend, 
Till  chill  arid  damp  the  moonless  night  descend.. 


TO  A  YOUNG  LADY. 


WITH  A  POEM  O^   THE   FRENCH  REVOLUTION. 

MUCH  on  my  early  youth  I  love  to  dwell, 

Ere  yet  I  bade  that  friendly  dome  farewell, 

Where  first,  beneath  the  echoing  cloisters,  pale, 

I  heard  of  guilt  and  wondered  at  the  tale  ! 

Yet  tho'  the  hours  flew  by  on  careless  wing, 

Full  heavily  of  sorrow  would  I  sing. 

Aye  as  the  star  of  evening  flung  its  beam 

In  broken  radiance  on  the  wavy  stream, 

My  soul  amid  the  pensive  twilight  gloom 

Mourned  with  the  breeze,  O,  Lee  Boo  !  *  o'er  thy  tombi 

Where'er  I  wandered,  pity  still  was  near, 

Breathed  from  the  heart  and  glistened  in  the  tear : 

No  knell  that  tolled,  but  filled  my  anxious  eye, 

And  suffering  nature  wept  that  one  should  die  1  f 

Thus  to  sad  sympathies  I  soothed  my  breast, 

Calm,  as  the  rainbow  in  the  weeping  west : 

When  slumb'ring  freedom  roused  by  high  disdain 

With  giant  fury  buist  her  triple  chain  ! 

Fierce  on  her  front  the  blasting  dog-star  glowed ; 

Her  banners  like  a  midnight  meteor  flowed  ; 

Amid  the  yelling  of  the  storm-rent  skies 

She  came,  and  scattered  battles  from  her  eyes  1 

*  Lee  Boo,  the  son  of  Abba  Tlmle,  prince  of  the  Pelew  Islands,  came  orer  t<j 
England  with  Captain  Wilson,  died  of  the  small-pox,  and  is  buried  in  Greenwich 
church-yard. 

t  Southey's  Retrospect. 


40  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


Then  exultation  waked  the  patriot  fire 
And  swept  with  wilder  hand  the  Alcaean  lyre  : 
Red  from  the  tyrant's  wound  I  shook  the  lance, 
And  strode  in  joy  the  reeking  plains  of  France ! 
Fall'n  is  th'  oppressor,  friendless,  ghastly,  low, 
And  my  heart  aches  tho'  mercy  struck  the  blow. 
With  wearied  thought  once  more  I  see  the  shade, 
Where  peaceful  virtue  weaves  the  myrtle  braid. 
And  O  !  if  eyes,  whose  holy  glances  roll, 
Swift  messengers,  and  eloquent  of  soul ; 
If  smiles  more  winning,  and  a  gentler  mien, 
Than  the  love-wildered  maniac's  brain  hath  seen 
Shaping  celestial  forms  in  vacant  air, 
If  these  demand  th'  impassioned  poet's  care — 
If  mirth,  and  softened  sense,  and  wit  refined, 
The  blameless  features  of  a  lovely  mind  ; 
Then  haply  shall  my  trembling  hand  assign 
No  fading  wreath  to  beauty's  saintly  shrine. 

Nor,  Sara  !  thou  these  early  flowers  refuse 

Ne'er  lurked  the  snake  beneath  their  simple  hues, 
No  purple  bloom  the  child  of  nature  brings 
From  flatt'ry's  night-shade  :  as  he  feels,  he  sings. 
September,  1794. 


IMITATED  FROM  OSSIAN  * 

THE  stream  with  languid  murmur  creeps. 

In  ~Lumin's  flowery  vale  : 
Beneath  the  dew  the  lily  weeps, 

Stow- waving  to  the  gale. 

*  Cease,  restless  gale  !  '  it  seems  to  say, 
4  Nor  wake  me  with  thy  sighing ; 

The  honors  of  my  vernal  day 
On  rapid  wing  are  flying. 

'  To-morrow  shall  the  trav'ller  come 
Who  late  beheld  me  blooming  : 

His  searching  eye  shall  vainly  roam 
The  dreary  vale  of  Luniin.' 


*  The  flower  hangs  its  head  waving  at  times  to  the  gale.  Why  dost  thou  awake  me, 
O  gale  I  it  seems  to  suy,  I  am  covered  with  the  drops  of  heaven.  The  time  of  my 
fading  is  near,  the  blast  that  shall  scatter  my  leaves.  To-morrow  shall  the  traveller 
come,  he  that  saw  me  in  my  beauty  shall  come.  His  eyes  will  search  the  field,  they 
will  not  find  me.  So  shall  they  search  in  vaii-  for  the  voice  of  Cona,  after  it  has  failed 
in  the  field. — Berrathon:  see  Ossian's  J'oeme. 


EARLY  POEMS.  4* 

With  eager  gaze  and  wetted  cheek 

My  wonted  haunts  along, 
Thus,  faithful  maiden  !  thou  shalt  seek 

The  youth  of  simplest  song. 

But  I  along  the  breeze  shall  roll 

The  voice  of  feeble  power  ; 
And  dwell,  the  moon-beam  of  thy  soul, 

In  slumber's  nightly  hour. 


THE  COMPLAINT  OF  NTNATHOMA.* 

How  long  will  ye  round  me  be  swelling, 

O  ye  blue-tumbling  waves  of  the  sea  ? 
Not  always  in  caves  was  my  dwelling, 

Nor  beneath  the  cold  blast  of  the  tree. 
Thro'  the  high-sounding  halls  of  Cathloma 

In  the  steps  of  my  beauty  I  stray'd  ; 
The  warriors  beheld  Ninathoma, 

And  they  blessed  the  white-bosomed  maid  ! 
A  ghost !  by  my  cavern  it  darted  ! 

In  moon-beams  the  spirit  was  drest — 
For  lovely  appear  the  departed 

When  they  visit  the  dreams  of  my  rest ! 
But  disturbed  by  the  tempest's  commotion 

Fleet  the  shadowy  forms  of  delight — 
Ah,  cease,  thou  shrill  blast  of  the  ocean  ! 

To  howl  through  my  cavern  by  night- 


IMITATED  FROM  THE  WELSH. 

IP,  while  my  passion  I  impart, 
You  deem  my  words  untrue, 

O  place  your  hand  upon  my  heart- 
Feel  how  it  throbs  for  you  ! 

Ah  no  !  reject  the  thoughtless  claim 

In  pity  to  your  lover  ! 
That  thrilling  touch  would  aid  the  flame 

It  wishes  to  discover. 

*  How  long  will  ye  roll  around  me,  blue-tumbling  waters  of  ocean  ?  My  dwelling 
was  not  always  in  caves,  nor  beneath  the  whistling  ti-ee.  My  feast  was  spread  in 
Torthoma's  hall.  The  youths  beheld  me  in  my  loveliness.  They  blessed  the  dark- 
haired  Nina-thorn^.— J 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


TO  A  YOUNG  ASS, 

ITS  MOTHER  BEING  TETHERED  NEAR  IT. 

POOR  little  foal  of  an  oppressed  race  ! 

I  love  the  languid  patience  of  thy  face  : 

And  oft  with  gentle  hand  I  give  thee  bread, 

And  clap  thy  ragged  coat,  and  pat  thy  head. 

But  what  thy  dulled  spirits  hath  dismayed, 

That  never  thou  dost  sport  along  the  glade  ? 

And  (most  unlike  the  nature  of  things  young) 

That  earth-ward  still  thy  moveless  head  is  hung  ! 

Bo  thy  prophetic  fears  anticipate, 

Meek  child  of  misery  !  thy  future  fate  ? 

The  starving  meal,  and  all  the  thousand  aches 

'  Which  patient  merit  of  the  unworthy  takes  ?  ' 

Or  is  thy  sad  heart  thrilled  with  filial  pain 

To  see  thy  wretched  mother's  shortened  chain  ? 

And  truly,  very  piteous  is  her  lot  — 

Chained  to  a  log  within  a  narrow  spot 

Where  the  close-eaten  grass  is  scarcely  seen, 

While  sweet  around  her  waves  'the  tempting  green  ! 

Poor  ass  !  thy  master  should  have  learnt  to  show 

Pity  —  best  taught  by  fellowship  of  woe  ! 

For  much  I  fear  me,  that  he  lives,  like  thee, 

Half-famished  in  a  land  of  luxury  ! 

How  asking  ly  its  footsteps  hither  bent' 

It  seems  to  say,  '  And  have  I  then  one  friend?  * 

Innocent  foal  !  thou  poor  despised  forlorn  ! 

•I  hail  thee  brother  —  spite  of  the  fool's  scorn  ! 

And  fain  would  take  thee  with  me,  in  the  dell 

Of  peace  and  mild  equality  to  dwell, 

Where  toil  shall  call  the  charmer  health  his  bride, 

And  laughter  tickle  plenty's  ribless  side  1 

How  thou  wouldst  toss  thy  heels  in  gamesome  play, 

And  frisk  about,  as  lamb  or  kitten  gay  ! 

Yea  !  arid  more  musically  sweet  to  me 

Thy  dissonant  harsh  bray  of  joy  would  be, 

Than  warbled  melodies  that  soothe  to  rest 

The  aching  of  pale  fashion's  vacant  breast  I 


EARLY  POEMS. 


TO  AN  INFANT. 

AH  cease  thy  tears  and  sobs,  my  little  life  ! 
I  did  but  snatch  away  the  unclasped  knife  : 
Some  safer  toy  will  soon  arrest  thine  eye, 
And  to  quick  laughter  change  this  peevish  cry  t 
Poor  stumbler  on  the  rocky  coast  of  woe, 
Tutored  by  pain  each  source  of  pain  to  know  1 
Alike  the  foodful  fruit  and  scorching  fire 
Awake  thy  eager  grasp  and  young  desire  : 
Alike  the  good,  the  ill  offend  thy  sight, 
And  rouse  the  stormy  sense  of  shrill  affright ! 
Untaught,  yet  wise  !  mid  all  thy  brief  alarms 
Thou  closely  clingest  to  thy  mother's  arms, 
Nestling  thy  little  face  in  that  fond  breast 
Whose  anxious  heavings  lull  thee  to  thy  rest ! 
Man's  breathing  miniature  !  thou  mak'st  me  sigh — 
A  babe  art  thou — and  such  a  thing  am  I ! 

To  anger  rapid  and  as  soon  appeased, 

For  trifles  mourning  and  by  trifles  pleased  ; 

Break  friendship's  mirror  with  a  tetchy  blow, 

Yet  snatch  what  coals  of  fire  on  pleasure's  altar  glow  J 

Oh  thou  that  rearest  with  celestial  aim 

The  future  seraph  in  my  mortal  frame, 

Thrice  holy  Ij'aith  !  whatever  thorns  I  meet 

As  on  I  totter  with  unpractised  feet, 

Still  let  me  stretch  iny  arms  and  cling  to  thee, 

Meek  nurse  of  souls  through  their  long  infancy  I 


EPITAPH  ON  AN  INFANT. 

EBK  sin  could  blight  or  sorrow  fade, 
Death  came  with  friendly  care  ; 

The  opening  bud  to  Heaven  conveyed 
And  bade  it  blossom  there. 


44.  COLERIDGE  'S  POEMS. 


DOMESTIC  PEACE. 

TELL  me,  on  what  holy  ground 
May  domestic  peace  be  found  ? 
Halcyon  daughter  of  the  skies, 
Far  on  fearful  wings  she  flies 
Prom  the  pomp  of  sceptred  state, 
From  the  rebel's  noisy  hate. 
In  a  cottaged  vale  she  dwells, 
List'ning  to  the  sabbath  bells  ! 
Still  around  her  steps  are  seen 
Spotless  honor's  meeker  mien. 
Love,  the  sire  of  pleasing  fears, 
Sorrow  smiling  through  her  tears, 
And,  conscious  of  the  past  employ, 
Memory,  bosom-spring  of  joy. 


LINES  WRITTEN  AT  THE  KING'S-ARMS,  ROSS, 

FORMERLY  THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  '  MAN  OF  ROSS.' 

RICHER  than  misers  o'er  their  countless  hoards, 

Nobler  than  kings,  or  king-polluted  lords, 

Here  dwelt  the  man  of  Ross  !     O  trav'ller,  hear, 

Departed  merit  claims  a  reverent  tear. 

If  'neath  this  roof  thy  wine-cheered  moments  pass, 

Fill  to  the  good  man's  name  one  grateful  glass  : 

4To  higher  zest  shall  mem'ry  wake  thy  soul, 

And  virtue  mingle  in  th'  ennobled  bowl. 

But  if,  like  mine   thro'  life's  distressful  scene 

Lonely  and  sad  thy  pilgrimage  hath  been  ; 

And  if,  thy  breast  with  heart-sick  anguish  fraught, 

Thou  journeyest  onward  tempest-tost  in  thought ; 

Here  cheat  thy  cares  !  in  generous  visions  melt, 

And  dream  of  goodness  thou  hast  never  felt  1 


ffARL  Y  POEMS.  45 


TO  A  FRIEND  ;  * 

WITH  AN   UNFINISHED  POEM. 

THUS  far  my  scanty  brain  hath  built  the  rhyme 
Elaborate  and  swelling  :  yet  the  heart 
Not  owns  it.     From  thy  spirit-breathing  powers 
I  ask  not  now,  my  friend  !  the  aiding  verse, 
Tedious  to  thee,  and  from  thy  anxious  thought 
Of  dissonant  mood.     In  fancy  (\rell  I  know) 
From  business  wand' ring  far  and  local  cares, 
Thou  creepest  round  a  dear-loved  sister's  bed 
With  noiseless  step,  and  watchest  the  faint  look, 
Soothing  each  pang  with  fond  solicitude, 
And  tenderest  tones  medicinal  of  love, 
I  too  a  sister  had,  an  only  sister—- 
She loved  me  dearly,  and  I  doted  on  her ! 
To  her  I  poured  forth  all  my  puny  sorrows 
(As  a  sick  patient  in  his  nurse's  arms), 
And  of  the  heart  those  hidden  maladies 
That  even  from  friendship's  eye  will  shrink  ashamed. 
O  !  I  have  woke  at  midnight,  and  have  wept, 
Because  she  was  riot ! — Cheerily,  dear  Charles  ! 
Thou  thy  best  friend  shalt  cherish  many  a  year  : 
Such  warm  presagings  feel  I  of  high  hope. 
For  not  uninterested  the  dear  maid 
I've  viewed — her  soul  affectionate  yet  wise, 
Her  polished  wit  as  mild  as  lambent  glories, 
That  play  around  a  sainted  infant's  head. 
He  knows  (the  Spirit  that  in  secret  sees, 
Of  whose  omniscient  and  all-spreading  love 
Aught  to  implore^  were  impotence  of  mind) 
That  my  mute  thoughts  are  sad  before  His  throne, 
Prepared,  when  He  His  healing  ray  vouchsafes, 
To  pour  forth  thanksgiving  with  lifted  heart, 
And  praise  Him  gracious  with  a  brother's  joy  ! 

December,  1794. 

*  Charles  Lamb. 

1 1  utterly  recant  the  sentiment  contained  in  the  lines — 

Of  whose  omniscient  and  all-ppreading  love 
Aught  to  implore  were  impotence  of  mind, 

it  being  written  in  Scripture,  «  Ask,  and  it  shall  be  given  you,'  and  my  human  reason 
oeing  moreover  convinced  of  the  propriety  of  offering  petitions  as  well  as  thanks- 
givings to  Deity, 


46  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


LINES   ON  A   FRIEND, 

WHO  DIED   OF  A   FRENZY   FEVER,   INDUCED   BY    CALUMNIOUS 
REPORTS. 

EDMUND  !  thy  grave  with  aching  eye  I  scan, 

And  inly  groan  for  heaven's  poor  outcast,  man  ! 

'Tis  tempest  all  or  gloom  :  in  early  youth, 

If  gifted  with  the  Ithuriel  lance  of  truth, 

We  force  to  start  amid  her  feigned  caress 

Vice,  siren-hag  !  in  native  ugliness, 

A  brother's  fate  will  haply  rouse  the  tear  : 

Onward  we  move  in  heaviness  and  fear ! 

But  if  our  fond  hearts  call  to  pleasure's  bower 

Some  pigmy  folly  in  a  careless  hour, 

The  faithless  guest  shall  stamp  th'  enchanted  ground 

And  mingled  forms  of  mis'ry  rise  around  : 

Heart-fretting  fear,  with  pallid  look  aghast, 

That  courts  the  future  woe  to  hide  the  past ; 

Remorse,  the  poisoned  arrow  in  his  side  ; 

And  loud  lewd  mirth,  to  anguish  close  allied  : 

Till  frenzy,  fierce-eyed  child  of  moping  pain, 

Darts  her  hot  1  ightning  flash  athwart  the  brain. 

Rest,  injured  shade  f     Shall  slander  squatting  near 

Spit  her  cold  venom  in  a  dead  man's  ear  ? 

'Twas  thine  to  feel  the  sympathetic  glow 

In  merit's  joy,  and  poverty's  meek  woe  ; 

Thine  all,  that  cheer  the  moment  as  it  flies, 

The  zoneless  cares,  and  smiling  courtesies. 

Nursed  in  thy  heart  the  firmer  virtues  grew, 

And  in  thy  heart  they  withered  !     Such  chill  dew 

Wan  indolence  on  each  young  blossom  shed ; 

And  vanity  her  filmy  net-work  spread, 

With  eye  that  rolled  around  in  asking  gaze, 

And  tongue  that  trafficked  in  the  trade  of  praise. 

Thy  follies  such  !  the  hard  world  mark'd  them  well — 

Were  they  more  wise,  the  proud  who  never  fell  ? 

Rest,  injured  shade  !  the  poor  man's  grateful  prayer 
On  heaven- ward  wing  thy  wounded  soul  shall  bear. 
As  oft  at  twilight  gloom  thy  grave  I  pass, 
And  oft  sit  down  upon  its  recent  grass, 
With  introverted  eye  I  contemplate 
Similitude  of  eoul,  perhaps  of — fate  t 


EARL  Y  POEMS.  47 


To  me  hath  Heaven  with  bounteous  hand  assign'd 
Energic  reason  arid  a  shaping  mind, 
The  daring  ken  of  truth,  the  patriot's  part, 
And  pity's  sigh,  that  breathes  the  gentle  heart — 
Sloth-jaundiced  all !  and  from  my  grasyless  hand 
Drop  friendship's  precious  pearls,  like  hour-glass  sand. 
I  weep,  yet  stoop  not  I  the  faint  anguish  flows, 
A  dreamy  pang  in  morning's  fev'rish  doze. 

Is  this  piled  earth  our  being's  passless  mound  ? 
Tell  me,  cold  grave !  is  death  with  poppies  crown'd  ? 
Tired  sentinel !  mid  fitful  starts  I  nod. 
And  fain  would  sleep,  though  pillowed  on  a  clod ! 


MONODY  OX  THE  DEATH  OF  CHATTERTON. 


faint  and  sad  o'er  sorrow's  desert  wild 
Slow  journeys  onward  poor  misfortune's  child  j 
When  fades  each  lovely  form  by  fancy  drest, 
And  inly  pines  the  self-consuming  breast  ; 
(No  scourge  of  scorpions  in  thy  right  arm  dread. 
No  helmed  terrors  nodding  o'er  thy  head  ;) 
Assume,  O  death  !  the  cherub  wings  of  peace, 
And  bid  the  heart-sick  wanderer's  anguish  cease  \ 

Thee,  Chatterton  !  yon  unblest  stones  protect 
From  want,  and  the  bleak  freezings  of  neglect  ! 
Escaped  the  sore  wounds  of  affliction's  rod, 
Meek  at  the  throne  of  mercy,  and  of  God, 
Perchance,  thou  raisest  high  th'  enraptured  hymn 
Amid  the  blaze  of  seraphin  ! 

Yet  oft  ('tis  nature's  call) 

I  weep,  that  heaven-born  genius  so  should  fall  j 

And  oft,  in  fancy's  saddest  hour,  my  soul 

Averted  shudders  at  the  poisoned  bowl. 

Now  groans  my  sickening  heart,  as  still  I  view 

Thy  corse  of  livid  hue  ; 
And  now  a  flash  of  indignation  high 
Darts  thro'  the  tear,  that  glistens  in  mine  eyei 

Is  this  the  land  of  song-ennobled  line  ? 

Is  this  the  land,  where  genius  ne'er  in  vain 

Pour'd  forth  his  lofty  strain  ? 
Ah  me  !  yet  Spenser,  gentlest  bard  divine, 


COLERIDG&S  POEMS. 


Beneath  chill  disappointment's  shade, 
His  weary  limbs  in  lonely  anguish  laid, 

And  o'er  her  darling  dead 

Pity  hopeless  hung  her  head, 
While  'mid  the  pelting  of  that  merciless  storm, 
Sunk  to  the  cold  earth  Otway's  famished  form  1 

Sublime  of  thought,  and  confident  of  fame 
From  vales  where  Avon  winds  the  minstrel  *  camr 
Lighted-hearted  youth  !  he  hastes  along, 

And  meditates  the  future  song, 
How  dauntless  .ZElla  fray'd  the  Dacian  foes  : 
See,  as  floating  high  in  air 
Glitter  the  sunny  visions  fair, 
His  eyes  dance  rapture,  and  his  bosom  glows  ? 

Ah  !  where  are  fled  the  charms  of  vernal  grace, 
And  joy's  wild  gleams,  light-flashing  o'er  thy  fact 
Youth  of  tumultuous  soul,  and  haggard  eye  ! 
Thy  wasted  form,  thy  hurried  steps  I  view, 
On  thy  cold  forehead  starts  the  anguished  dew  : 
And  dreadful  was  that  bosom-rending  sigh  ! 

Such  were  the  struggles  of  that  gloomy  houi, 

When  care,  of  withered  brow, 
Prepared  the  poison's  power  : 
Already  to  thy  lips  was  raised  the  bowl. 
When  near  thee  stood  affection  meek 
(Her  bosom  bare,  arid  wildly  pale  her  cheek) 
Thy  sullen  gaze  she  bade  thee  roll 
On  scenes  that  well  might  melt  thy  soul  ; 
Thy  native  cot  she  flashed  upon  thy  view, 
Thy  native  cot,  where  still,  at  close  of  day, 
Peace  oiniling  sate,  and  listened  to  thy  lay  ; 
Thy  sister's  shrieks  she  bade  thee  hear, 
Arid  mark  thy  mother's  tear  ; 

See,  see  her  breast's  convulsive  throe, 
Her  silent  agony  of  woe  ! 
Ah  !  dash  the  poisoned  chalice  from  thy  hand  ! 

And  thou  hadst  dashed  it,  at  her  soft  command, 
But  that  despair  and  indignation  rose, 
And  told  a^ain  the  story  of  thy  woes  ; 
Told  the  keen  insult  of  th'  unfeeling  heart  ; 
The  dread  dependence  on  the  low-born  mind  ; 


*  Avon,  a  rive*  near  Bristol ;  the  birth-place  of  Chatterto.i. 


EARLY  POEMS.  49 


Told  ev'ry  pang,  with  which  thy  soul  must  smart. 
Neglect,  and  grinning  scorn,  and  want  combined  ! 
Recoiling  quick,  thou  bad'st  the  friend  of  pain 
Roll  the  black  tide  of  death  thro'  every  freezing  vein ! 

Ye  woods  !  that  wave  o'er  Avon's  rocky  steep, 
To  fancy's  ear  sweet  is  your  murm'ring  deep  ! 
For  here  she  loves  the  cypress  wreath  to  weave ; 
Watching,  with  wistful  eye,  the  sadd'ning  tints  of  eve. 
Here,  far  from  men,  amid  this  pathless  grove, 
In  solemn  thought  the  minstrel  wont  to  rove, 
Like  star-beam  on  the  slow  sequestered  tide 
Lone-glittering,  thro'  the  high  tree  branching  wide. 
And  here,  in  inspiration's  eager  hour, 
When  most  the  big  soul  feels  the  madd'ning  power, 
These  wilds,  these  caverns  roaming  o'er, 
Round  which  the  screaming  sea-gulls  soar, 
With  wild  unequal  steps  he  passed  along, 
Oft  pouring  on  the  winds  a  broken  song  : 
Anon,  upon  some  rough  rock's  fearful  brow 
Would  pause  abrupt — and  gaze  upon  the  waves  below. 

Poor  Chatterton  !  lie  sorrows  for  thy  fate 

Who  would  have  praised  and  loved  thee,  ere  too  late. 

Poor  Chatterton  !  farewell !  of  darkest  hues 

This  chaplet  cast  I  on  thy  shapeless  tomb ; 

But  dare  no  longer  on  the  sad  theme  muse, 

Lest  kindred  woes  persuade  a  kindred  doom  ! 

Hence,  gloomy  thoughts  !  no  more  my  boul  shall  dwell 

On  joys  that  were  !     No  more  endure  to  weigh 

The  shame  and  anguish  of  the  evil  day, 

Wisely  forgetful !     O'er  the  ocean  swell 

Sublime  of  hope  I  seek  the  cottaged  dell 

Where  virtue  calm  with  careless  step  may  stray  ; 

And,  dancing  to  the  moonlight  roundelay, 

The  wizard  passions  weave  an  holy  spell ! 

0  Chatterton  !  that  thou  w^rt  yet  alive  ! 

Sure  thou  would' st  spread  the  canvas  to  the  gale, 

And  love,  with  us,  the  tinkling  team  to  drive 

O'er  peaceful  freedom's  undivided  dale  ; 

And  we,  at  sober  eve,  would  round  thee  throng, 

Hanging,  enraptured,  on  thy  stately  song  ! 

And  greet  with  smiles  the  young-eyed  poesy 

All  deftly  mask'd,  as  hoar  antiquity. 


£0  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS 


Alas,  vain  phantasies !  the  fleeting  brood 

Of  woe  self-solaced  in  her  dreamy  mood ! 

Yet  will  I  love  to  follow  the  sweet  dream, 

Where  Susquehannah  pours  his  untamed  stream ;  * 

And  on  some  hill,  whose  forest-frowning  side 

Waves  o'er  the  murmurs  of  his  calmer  tide, 

Will  raise  a  solemn  cenotaph  to  thee, 

Sweet  harper  of  time-shrouded  minstrelsy  ! 

And  there,  soothed  sadly  by  the  dirgeful  wind, 

Muse  on  the  sore  ills  I  had  left  behind. 


TO  THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

SISTER  of  love-lorn  poets,  Philomel  I 
How  many  bards  in  city  garret  pent, 
While  at  their  window  they  with  downward  eye 
Mark  the  faint  lamp-beam  on  the  kennelled  mud, 
And  listen  to  the  drowsy  cry  of  watchmen, 
(Those  hoarse  unfeathered  nightingales  of  time  1) 
How  many  wretched  bards  address  thy  name, 
And  hers,  the  full-orbed  queen  that  shines  above 
But  I  do  hear  thee,  and  the  high  bough  mark, 
Within  whose  mild  moon-mellowed  foliage  hid, 
Thou  warblest  sad  thy  pity-pleading  strains. 
Oh !  I  have  listened,  till  my  working  soul. 
Waked  by  those  strains  to  thousand  phantasies, 
Absorbed  hath  ceased  to  listen  !     Therefore  oft, 
I  hymn  thy  name :  and  with  a  proud  delight 
Oft  will  I  tell  thee,  minstrel  of  the  moon  1 
'  Most  musical,  most  melancholy '  bird  I 
That  all  thy  soft  diversities  of  tone, 
Tho'  sweeter  far  than  the  delicious  airs 
That  vibrate  from  a  white-arm'd  lady's  harp, 
What  time  the  languishment  of  lonely  love 
Melts  in  her  eye,  and  heaves  her  breast  of  snow, 
Are  not  so  sweet  as  is  the  voice  of  her, 
My  Sara — best  beloved  of  human  kind  ! 
When  breathing  the  pure  soul  of  tenderness 
She  thrills  me  with  the  husband's  promised  name  \ 


*  At  this  period  Coleridge,  with  Southey,  Wordsworth,  and  Lovell, 
th«  et tablishment  of  a  Pantisocracy  on  the  banks  of  the  Siutquehannah. 


contemplated 


EARLY  POEMS.  51 


IN  THE  MANNER  OF  SPENSER. 

0  PEACE,  that  on  a  lilied  bank  dost  love 
To  rest  thine  head  beneath  an  olive  tree, 

1  would  that  from  the  pinions  of  thy  dove 
One  quill  withouten  pain  yplucked  might  be  ! 
For  oh  !  I  wish  my  Sara's  frowns  to  flee, 

And  fain  to  her  some  soothing  song  would  write, 

Lest  she  resent  my  rude  discourtesy, 

Who  vowed  to  meet  her  ere  the  morning  light, 

But  broke  my  plighted  word — ah  !  false  and  recreant  wight 

Last  night  as  I  my  weary  head  did  pillow 

With  thoughts  of  my  dissevered  fair  engrossed, 

Chill  fancy  drooped,  wreathing  herself  with  willow, 

As  tho'  my  breast  entombed  a  pining-  ghost. 

'  From  some  blest  couch,  young  rapture's  bridal  boast* 

Rejected  slumber!  hither  wing  thy  way; 

But  leave  me  with  the  matin  hour,  at  most ! ' 

As  night-closed  floweret  to  the  orient  ray, 

My  sad  heart  will  expand,  when  I  the  maid  survey. 

But  Love,  who  '  heard  the  silence  of.  my  thought?5 
Contrived  a  too  successful  wile,  I  ween  : 
And  whispered  to  himself,  with  malice  fraught— 
*  Too  long  our  slave  the  damsel's  smiles  hath  seen  : 
To-morrow  shall  he  ken  her  altered  mien  ! ' 
He  spake,  and  ambushed  lay,  till  on  my  bed 
The  morning  shot  her  dewy  glances  keen, 
When  as  I  'gan  uplift  my  drowsy  head — 
'  Now,  bard  !  I'll  work  thee  woe  !  '  the  laughing  elfin  said- 
Sleep,  softly-breathing  god  !  his  downy  wing 
Was  fluttering  now,  as  quickly  to  depart  ; 
When  twanged  an  arrow  from  Love's  mystic  string, 
With  pathless  wound  it  pierced  him  to  the  heart. 
Was  there  some  magic  in  the  elfin's  dart? 
Or  did  he  strike  my  couch  with  wizard  lance  ? 
For  straight  so  fair  a  form  did  upwards  start 
(No  fairer  deck'd  the  bowers  of  old  romance) 
That  sleep  enamoured  grew,  nor  moved  from  his  sweet  trance! 

My  Sara  came,  with  gentlest  look  divine  ; 
Bright  shone  her  eye,  yet  tender  was  its  beam 
I  felt  the  pressure  of  her  lip  to  mine ! 
Whisp'ring  we  went,  and  love  was  all  our  theme— 


5«  COLERTDG&S  POEMS. 

Love  pure  and  spotless,  as  at  first,  I  deem, 

He  sprang  from  heaven  !     Such  joys  with  sleep  did  'bide 

That  I  the  living  image  of  my  dream 

Fondly  forgot.     Too  late  I  woke,  and  sighed — 

'  O !  how  shall  I  behold  my  love  at  even-tide  !  ' 

TO  THE  AUTHOR  OF  POEMS,* 

Published  anonymously  at  Bristol,  in  September,  1795. 

UNBOASTFILL  bard  !  whose  verse  concise  yet  clear 

Tunes  to  smooth  melody  uncoriquered  sense, 

May  your  fame  fadeless  live,  as  '  never-sere  ' 

The  ivy  wreathes  yon  oak,  whose  broad  defence 

Embowers  me  from  noon's  sultry  influence  ! 

For,  like  that  nameless  riv'let  stealing  by, 

Your  modest  verse  to  musing  quiet  dear 

Is  rich  with  tints  heaven  borrowed  :  the  charmed  eye 

Shall  gaze  undazzled  there,  and  love  the  softened  sky. 

Circling  the  base  of  the  poetic  mount 

A  stream  there  is,  which  rolls  in  lazy  flow 

Its  coal-black  waters  from  oblivion's  fount : 

The  vapor-poisoned  birds  that  fly  too  low, 

Fall  with  dead  swoop,  and  to  the  bottom  go. 

Escaped  that  heavy  stream  on  pinion  fleet 

Beneath  the  mountain's  lofty-frowning  brow, 

Ere  aught  of  perilous  ascent  you  meet, 

A  mead  of  mildest  charm  delays  th'  unlab'ring  feet. 

Not  there  the  cloud-climbed  rock,  sublime  and  vast, 
That,  like  some  giant  king,  o'erglooms  the  hill  j 
Nor  there  the  pine-grove  to  the  midnight  blast 
Makes  solemn  music  !  but  th'  unceasing  rill 
To  the  soft  wren  or  lark's  descending  trill 
Murmurs  sweet  undersong  'mid  jasmin  bowers. 
In  this  same  pleasant  meadow,  at  your  will, 
I  ween,  you  wandered — there  collecting  flowers 
Of  sober  tint,  and  herbs  of  med'cinable  powers  ! 

There  for  the  monarch-murdered  soldier's  tomb 
You  wove  th'  unfinished  wreath  f  of  saddest  hues  ; 
And  to  that  holier  chaplet  J  added  bloom 
Besprinkling  it  with  Jordan's  cleansing  dews. 
But  lo  !  your  Henderson  §  awakes  the  muse — 

•Mr.  Joseph  Cottle.  %  War,  a  Fragment. 

t  John  the  Baptist,  a  Poem.  §  Monody  on  John  Henderson. 


EARLY  POEMS.  53 


His  spirit  beckoned  from  the  mountain's  height ! 
You  left  the  plain  and  soared  'mid  richer  views ! 
So  nature  mourned  when  sunk  the  first  day's  light. 
With  stars,  unseen  before,  spangling  her  robe  of  night ! 

Still  soar,  my  friend,  those  richer  views  among, 

Strong  rapid,  fervent,  flashing  fancy's  beam  ! 

Virtue  and  truth  shall  love  your  gentler  song  ; 

But  poesy  demands  th'  impassioned  theme  : 

Waked  by  heaven's  silent  dews  at  eve's  mild  gleam, 

What  balmy  sweets  Romona  breathes  around  ! 

But  if  the  vext  air  rush  a  stormy  stream, 

Or  Autumn's  shrill  gust  rnoan  in  plaintive  sound, 

With  fruits  arid  flowers  she  loads  the  tempest-honored  ground. 


ODE  TO   SARA, 

IN  ANSWER  TO   A   LETTER  FROM  BRISTOL. 

Note.—  The  first  Stanza  alludes  to  a  passage  in  the  Letter. 


travels  my  meand'ring  eye 
The  starry  wilderness  on  high  ; 

Nor  now  with  curious  sight 
I  mark  the  glow-worm  as  I  pass, 
Move  with  '  green  radiance'  thro'  the  grass, 

An  emerald  of  light. 

0  ever-present  to  my  view  ! 
My  wafted  spirit  is  with  you, 

And  soothes  your  boding  fears  ; 

1  see  you  all  opprest  with  gloom 
Sit  lonely  in  that  cheerless  room— 

Ah  me  !  you  are  in  tears  ! 

Beloved  woman  !  did  you  fly 

Chilled  friendship's  dark  disliking  eye. 

Or  mirth's  untimely  din  ? 
With  cruel  weight  these  trifles  press 
A  temper  sore  with  tenderness, 

When  aches  the  void  within. 

But  why  with  sable  wand  uriblest 
Should  fancy  rouse  within  my  breast 


5  r  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

Dim-visaged  shapes  of  dread  ? 
Untenanting  its  beauteous  clay, 
My  Sara's  soul  has  winged  its  way, 

And  hovers  round  my  head ! 

I  felt  it  prompt  the  tender  dream, 
When,  slowly  sunk  the  day's  last  gleam, 

You  roused  each  gentler  sense  ; 
As  sighing  o'er  the  blossom's  bloom 
Meek  evening  wakes  its  soft  perfume 

With  viewless  influence. 

And  hark,  my  love  !     The  sea-breeze  moans 
Thro'  yon  reft  house  !     O'er  rolling  stones, 

With  broad  impetuous  sweep, 
The  fast  encroaching  tides  supply 
The  silence  of  the  cloudless  sky 

With  mimic  thunders  deep. 

Dark-redd' ning  from  the  channel'd*  isle 
(Where  stands  one  solitary  pile 

Unslated  by  the  blast) 
jFhe  watchfire,  like  a  sullen  star, 
Twinkles  to  many  a  dozing  tar 

Rude-cradled  on  the  mast. 

Ev'n  there — beneath  that  light-house  tower- 
In  the  tumultuous  evil  hour 

Eie  peace  with  Sara  came, 
Time  was,  I  should  have  thought  it  sweet 
To  count  the  echoings  of  my  feet, 

And  watch  the  troubled  flame. 

And  there  in  black  soul-jaundiced  fit 
A  sad  gloom-pampered  man  to  sit, 

And  listen  to  the  roar, 
When  mountain  surges,  bellowing  deep, 
With  an  uncouth  monster  leap 

Plunged  foaming  on  the  shore. 

Then  by  the  lightning's  blaze  to  mark, 
Some  toiling  tempest-shattered  bark : 

Her  vam  distress-guns  hear  : 
And  when  a  second-sheet  of  light 
Flashed  o'er  the  blackness  of  the  night — 

To  see  no  vessel  there  ! 


*The  Holmes,  in  the  Bristol  Channel. 


EARLY  POEMS,  55 


But  fancy  now  more  gayly  sings  ; 
Or  if  awhile  she  droop  her  wings, 

As  skylarks  'mid  the  corn, 
On  summer  fields  she  grounds  her  breast : 
Th'  oblivious  poppy  o'er  her  nest, 

Nods,  till  returning  morn. 

O  mark  those  smiling  tears,  that  swell 
The  opened  rose  !     From  heaven  they  fell, 

And  with  the  sunbeam  blend  ; 
Blessed  visitations  from  above  : 
Such  are  the  tender  woes  of  love 

Fost'ring  the  heart  they  bend  ! 

When  stormy  midnight  howling  round 
Beats  on  our  roof  with  clatt'ring  sound, 

To  me  your  arms  you' 11  stretch  : 
Great  God  1  you'll  say — To  us  so  kind, 

0  shelter  from  this  loud  bleak  wind 
The  houseless,  friendless  wretch  ! 

The  tears  that  tremble  down  your  cheek, 
Shall  bathe  my  kisses  chaste  and  meek 

In  pity's  dew  divine  ; 
And  from  your  heart  the  sighs  that  steal 
Shall  make  your  rising  bosom  feel 

The  answ'ring  swell  of  mine ! 

How  oft,  my  love !  with  shapings  sweet 

1  paint  the  moment  we  shall  meet ! 

With  eager  speed  I  dart — 
I  seize  you  in  the  vacant  air, 
And  fancy,  with  a  husband's  care, 

I  press  you  to  my  heart ! 


TO  A  FRIEND, 

ANSWER  TO   A  MELANCHOLY  LETTER. 

those  cloudy  looks,  that  lab' ring  sigh, 
peevish  offspring  of  a  sickly  hour  ! 
Nor  meanly  thus  complain  of  fortune's  power, 
the  blind  gamester  throws  a  luckless  die. 


56  COLERIDGE'S  POLMS. 

Yon  setting  sun  flashes  a  mournful  gleam 
Behind  those  broken  clouds,  his  stormy  train : 
To-morrow  shall  the  many-colored  main 
In  brightness  roll  beneath  his  orient  beam ! 

Wild  as  th'  autumnal  gust,  the  hand  of  Time 
Flies  o'er  his  mystic  lyre  !  in  shadowy  dance 
Th'  alternate  groups  of  joy  and  grief  advance, 
Responsive  to  his  varying  strains  sublime  1 

Bears  on  its  wing  each  hour  a  load  of  fate. 

The  swain,  who  lulled  by  Seine's  wild  murmurs,  led 

His  weary  oxen  to  their  nightly  shed, 

To-day  may  rule  a  tempest- troubled  State. 

."Nor  shall  not  fortune  with  a  vengeful  smile 
Survey  the  sanguinary  despot's  might, 
And  haply  hurl  the  pageant  from  his  height, 
Unwept  to  wander  in  some  savage  isle. 

There,  shiv'ring  sad  beneath  the  tempest's  frown, 
Round  his  tired  limbs  to  wrap  the  purple  vest ; 
And  mixed  with  nails  and  beads,  an  equal  jest ! 
Barter  for  food  the  jewels  of  his  crown. 


COMPOSED  AT  CLEVEDON,  SOMERSETSHIRE. 

MY  pensive  Sara  !  thy  soft  cheek  reclined 

Thus  on  mine  arm,  most  soothing  sweet  it  is 

To  sit  beside  our  cot,  our  cot  o'ergrown 

With  white-flowered  jasmin,  and  the  broad-leaved  myrtle, 

And  watch  the  clouds  that  late  were  rich  with  light, 

Slow-sadd'ning  round,  and  mark  the  star  of  eve 

Shine  opposite  I     How  exquisite  the  scents 

Snatched  from  yon  bean-field  !  and  the  world  so  hushed 

Hark  !  the  still  murmur  of  the  distant  sea 

Tells  us  of  silence  !     And  th'  Eoliari  lute, 

How  by  the  desultory  breeze  caressed. 

Like  some  coy  maid  half-yielding  to  her  lover, 

It  pours  such  sweet  upbraidings,  as  must  needs 

Tempt  to  repeat  the  wrong  !     And  now  its  strings 

Boldlier  swept,  the  long  sequacious  no" 

Over  delicious  surges  sink  arid  rise, 


EARL  Y  POEMS.  57 


Such  a  soft  floating  witchery  of  sound. — 

Methinks,  it  should  have  been  impossible 

Not  to  love  all  things  in  a  world  like  this. 

Where  e'en  the  breezes  of  the  simple  air 

Possess  the  power  and  spirit  of  melody  ! 

And  thus,  my  love !  as  on  the  midway  slope 

Of  yonder  hill  I  stretch  my  limbs  at  noon, 

Whilst  thro'  my  half-closed  eyelids  I  behold 

The  sunbeams  dance,  like  diamonds,  on  the  main, 

And  tranquil  muse  upon  tranquillity  j 

Full  many  a  thought  uncalled  and  undetained, 

And  many  idle  flitting  phantasies, 

Traverse  my  indolent  arid  passive  brain, 

As  wild  and  various  as  the  random  gales 

That  swell  or  flutter  on  this  subject  lute  ! 

And  what  if  all  of  animated  nature 

Be  but  organic  harps  diversely  framed 

That  tremble  into  thought,  as  o'er  them  sweeps, 

Plastic  and  vast,  one  intellectual  breeze, 

At  once  the  soul  of  each,  and  God  of  all  ? 

But  thy  mor^  serious  eye  a  mild  reproof 

Darts,  O  beloved  woman  !  nor  such  thoughts 

Dim  and  unhallowed  dost  thou  not  reject, 

And  biddest  me  walk  humbly  with  my  God. 

Meek  daughter  in  th    family  of  Christ, 

Well  hast  thou  said   and  holily  dispraised 

These  shapings  of  the  unregenerate  mind, 

Bubbles  that  glitter  as  they  rise  and  break 

On  vain  philosophy's  aye-babbling  spring. 

For  never  guiltless  may  I  speak  of  Him, 

Th'  Incomprehensible  !  save  when  with  awe 

I  praise  him,  and  with  faith  that  inly  *  feels  j 

Who  with  His  saving  mercies  healed  me, 

A  sinful  and  most  miserable  man, 

Wildered  and  dark,  and  gave  me  to  possess 

Peace,  and  this  cot,  and  thee,  heart-honored  maid ! 

*  L'athee  n'est  point  ames  yeux  un  faux  esprit ;  je  puis  vivre  avec  lui  aussibien  et 
mieux  qu'avec  le  devot,  car  il  raisonne  dayantage,  mais  il  lui  manque  un  sens,  et  inpn 
ame  ne  se  fond  point  entirement  avec  la  sienne  ;  il  est  froid  au  spectacle  le  plus  ravis- 
sant,  et  il  cherche  un  syllogisine  lorsque  je  rends  un  action  de  grace.—  Appel  a  i'lmpar- 
tiale  PosterM,  par  la  Citoyenne  Roland. 


COLERIDG&S  POEMS. 


REFLECTIONS 

OJf  HAVING   LEFT   A  PLACE   OF  RETIREMENT. 

Sermoni  propriora.—  Hor. 

Low  was  our  pretty  cot  !  our  tallest  rose 
Peeped  at  the  chamber-  window.     We  could  hear 
At  silent  noon,  and  eve,  and  early  morn, 
The  sea's  faint  murmur.     In  the  open  air 
Our  myrtles  blossomed  ;  and  across  the  porch 
Thick  jasmins  twined  :  the  little  landscape  round 
Was  green  and  woody  and  refreshed  the  eye. 
It  was  a  spot,  which  you  might  aptly  call 
The  Valley  of  Seclusion  !     Once  I  saw 
(Hallowing  his  Sabbath-day  by  quietness) 
A  wealthy  son  of  commerce  saunter  by, 
Bristowa's  citizen  :  methought,  it  calmed 
His  thirst  of  idle  gold,  and  made  him  muse 
With  wiser  feelings  :  for  he  paused,  and  looked 
With  a  pleased  sadness,  arid  gazed  all  around, 
Then  eyed  our  cottage,  and  gazed  round  again, 
And  sighed,  and  said,  it  was  a  blessed  place. 
And  we  were  blessed.     Oft  with  patient  ear 
Long-listening  to  the  viewless  sky-lark's  note 
(Viewless,  or  haply  for  a  moment  seen 
Gleaming  on  sunny  wing)  —  '  And  such,'  I  said, 
'  The  inobtrusive  song  of  happiness  — 
Unearthly  minstrelsy  !  then  only  heard 
When  the  soul  seeks  to  hear  ;  when  all  is  hushed 
And  the  heart  listens  !  ' 

But  the  time,  when  first 

From  that  low  dell  steep  up  the  stony  mount 
I  climbed  with  perilous  toil  arid  reached  the  top, 
O  what  a  goodly  scene  !     Here  the  bleak  mount, 
The  baro  bleak  mountain  speckled  thin  with  sheep  ; 
Gray  clouds,  that  shadowing  spot  the  sunny  fields 
And  river,  now  with  oushy  rocks  o'erbrowed, 
Now  winding  bright  and  full,  with  naked  banks  ; 
And  seats,  and  lawns,  the  abbey,  and  the  wood, 
And  cots,  and  hamlets,  and  faint  city-spire  : 
The  Channel  there,  the  islands  and  white  sails, 
Dim  coasts,  and  cloud-like  hills,  arid  shoreless  ocean- 
It  seemed  lixe  omnipresence  !     God,  methought, 
Had  built  him  there  a  temple  :  the  whole  world 


EARL  Y  POEMS.  59 

Seemed  imaged  in  its  vast  circumference. 
No  wish  profaned  my  overwhelmed  heart. 
Blest  hour  !  it  was  a  luxury — to  be  ! 

Ah  quiet  dell  !  dear  cot !  and  mount  sublime ! 

I  was  constrained  to  quit  you.     Was  it  right, 

While  my  unnumbered  brethren  toiled  and  bled. 

That  I  should  dream  away  the  entrusted  hours 

On  rose-leaf  beds,  pamp'ring  the  coward  heart 

With  feelings  all  too  delicate  for   use  ? 

Sweet  is  the  tear  that  from  some  Howard's  eye 

Drops  on  the  cheek  of  one  he  lifts  from  earth  : 

And  he,  that  works  me  good  with  unmoved  face, 

Does  it  but  half :  he  chills  me  while  he  aids, 

My  benefactor,  not  my  brother  man  ! 

Yet  even  this,  this  cold  beneficence 

Seizes  my  praise,  when  I  reflect  on  those, 

The  sluggard  Pity's  vision-weaving  tribe  ! 

Who  sigh  for  wretchedness,  yet  shun  the  wretched, 

Nursing  in  some  delicious  solitude 

Their  slothful  loves  and  dainty  sympathies  ! 

I  therefore  go,  and  join  head,  heart,  and  hand, 

Active  and  firm,  to  fight  the  bloodless  fight 

Of  science,  freedom,  and  the  truth  in  Christ. 

Yet  oft  when  after  honorable  toil 

Rests  the  tired  mind,  and  waking  loves  to  dream, 

My  spirit  shall  revisit  thee,  dear  cot  ! 

Thy  jasmin  and  thy  window-peeping  rose, 

And  myrtles  fearless  of  the  mild  sea-air. 

And  I  shall  sigh  fond  wishes — sweet  abode  ! 

Ah — had  none  greater  1  and  that  all  had  such  I 


TO  AN  UNFORTUNATE  WOMAN 

THE  AUTHOR  HAD  KNOWN  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  HEB 
INNOCENCE. 

MYRTLE  leaf,  that  ill  besped 

Finest  in  the  gladsome  ray, 
Soiled  beneath  the  common  tread 

Far  from  thy  protecting  spray ! 

When  the  partridge  o'er  the  sheaf 

Whirred  along  the  yellow  vale, 
Sad,  I  saw  thee,  heedless  leaf  ! 

Love  the  dalliance  of  the  gale. 


6o  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


Lightly  didst  thou,  foolish  thing! 

Heave  and  flutter  to  his  sighs, 
While  the  flatt'rer  on  his  wing 

Wooed  and  whispered  thee  to  rise. 

Gayly  from  thy  mother  stalk 

Wert  thou  danced  and  wafted  high  ; 
Soon  on  this  unsheltered  walk 

Flung  to  fade,  to  rot,  and  die  1 


LINES 

ON  OBSERVING  A   BLOSSOM  ON   THE   FIRST   OF    FEBRUARY,    1796. 

SWEET  flower  !  that  peeping  from  thy  russet  stem, 

Unfoldest  timidly  (for  in  strange  sort 

This  dark,  freeze- coated,  hoarse,  teeth-chattering  month 

Hath  borrowed  Zephyr's  voice,  and  gazed  upon  thee 

With  '  blue  voluptuous  eye ')  ;  alas,  poor  flower! 

These  are  but  flatteries  of  the  faithless  year. 

Perchance  escaped  its  unknown  polar  cave 

Ev'n  now  the  keen  north-east  is  on  its  way. 

Flower,  that  must  perish  !  shall  I  liken  thee 

To  some  sweet  girl  of  too,  too  rapid  growth 

Nipped  by  consumption  'mid  untimely  charms  ? 

Or  to  Bristowa's  bard,*  the  wondrous  boy ! 

An  amaranth,  which  earth  scarce  seemed  to  own, 

Blooming  'mid  poverty's  drear  wintry  waste, 

Till  disappointment  came,  and  pelting  wrong 

Beat  it  to  earth  ?    Or  with  indignant  grief 

Shall  I  compare  thee  to  poor  Poland's  hope, 

Bright  flower  of  hope  killed  in  the  opening  bud  ? 

Farewell,  sweet  blossom  !  better  fate  be  thine 

And  mock  my  boding !  dim  similitudes 

Weaving  in  moral  strains,  I've  stolen  one  hour 

From  black  anxiety  that  gnaws  my  heart 

For  her  who  droops  far-off  on  a  sick  bed  : 

And  the  warm  wooings  of  this  sunny  day 

Tremble  along  my  frame  and  harmonize 

Th'  attempered  brain,  that  even  the  saddest  thoughts 

Mix  with  some  sweet  sensations,  like  harsh  tunes 

Played  deftly  on  a  soft-toned  instrument. 

i»i     j  .••  —  .•.,-,„.-——-..•,.        .  -  ..  •  •  ".      ii  •  in          •          -        •--..•.  •w 

*  Chatterou. 


EARLY  POEMS. 


THE  HOUR  WHEN  WE    SHALL  MEET  AGAIN. 

(Composed  during  illness,  and  in  absence.) 

DIM  hour  !  that  sleep'st  on  pillowing  clouds  afar, 
O  rise  and  yoke  the  turtles  to  thy  car  ! 
Bend  o'er  the  traces,  blame  each  lingering  dove ! 
And  give  me  to  the  bosom  of  my  love ! 
My  gentle  love,  caressing  and  carest, 
With  heaving  heart  shall  cradle  me  to  rest ! 
Shed  the  warm  tear-drop  from  her  smiling  eyes, 
Lull  with  fond  woe,  and  med'cine  me  with  sighs  ! 
Chilled  by  the  night,  the  drooping  rose  of  May 
Mourns  the  long  absence  of  the  lovely  day  ; 
Young  day  returning  at  her  promised  hour 
Weeps  o'er  the  sorrows  of  her  fav'rite  flower ; 
Weeps  the  soft  dew,  the  balmy  gale  she  sighs, 
Arid  darts  a  trembling  lustre  from  her  eyes. 
New  life  and  joy  th'  expanding  flowret  feels  : 
His  pitying  mistress  mourns,  and  mourning  heals  t 


TO  C.  LLOYD. 


ON  HIS  PROPOSING  TO  DOMESTICATE  WITH  THE  AUTHOR. 

A  MOUNT,  not  wearisome  and  bare  and  steep, 
But  a  gteen  mountain  variously  up-piled 
Where  o'er  the  jutting  rocks  soft  mosses  creep 
Or  colored  lichens  with  slow  oozing  weep  ; 
Where  cypress  and  the  darker  yew  start  wild  ; 
And  'mid  the  summer  torrent's  gentle  dash 
Dance  brightened  the  red  clusters  of  the  ash  ; 
Beneath  whose  boughs,  by  stillest  sounds  beguiled, 
Calm  pensiveness  might  muse  herself  to  sleep ; 
Till  haply  startled  by  some  fleecy  dam, 
That  rustling  on  the  bushy  cliff  above 
With  melancholy  bleat  of  anxious  love 
Made  meek  enquiry  for  her  wand'ring  lamb  : 
Such  a  green  mountain  'twere  most  sweet  to  climb 
E'en  while  the  bosom  ached  with  loneliness — 
How  heavenly  sweet,  if  some  dear  freind  should  bless 


62  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

Th'  advent'rous  toil,  and  up  the  path  sublime 
Now  lead,  now  follow  ;  the  glad  landscape  round 
Wide  and  more  wide,  increasing  without  bound ! 

O  then  'twere  loveliest  sympathy,  to  mark 

The  berries  of  the  half  up-rooted  ash 

Dripping  and  bright ;  and  list  the  torrent's  dash — 

Beneath  the  cypress,  or  the  yew  more  dark, 

Seated  at  ease,  on  some  smooth  mossy  rock  ; 

In  social  silence  now,  and  now  t'  unlock 

The  treasured  heart  j  arm  linked  in  friendly  arm, 

Save  if  the  one,  his  muse's  witching  charm 

Mutt' ring  brow-bent,  at  unwatched  distance  lag  ; 

Till  high  o'er-head  his  beck'ning  friend  appears, 

And  from  the  forehead  of  the  topmost  crag 

Shouts  eagerly  ;  for  haply  there  uprears 

That  shadowing  pine  its  old  romantic  limbs 

Which  latest  shall  detain  the  enamoured  sight 

Seen  from  below,  who  a  eve  the  valley  dims, 

Tinged  yellow  with  the  rich  departing  light ; 

And  haply,  basoned  in  some  unsunned  cleft, 

A  beauteous  spring,  t'-e  rock's  collected  tears, 

Sleeps  sheltered  there,  scarce  wrinkled  by  the  gale  I 

Together  thus,  the  world's  vain  turmoil  left, 

Stretched  on  the  cra^,  and  shadowed  by  the  pine, 

And  bending  o'er  the  clear  delicious  fount, 

Ah,  dearest  Charles  !  it  were  a  lot  divine 

To  cheat  our  noons  in  moralizing  mood, 

While  west  winds  fanned  our  temples,  toil-bedewed 

Then  downwards  slope,  oft-pausing,  from  the  mount* 

To  some  low  mansion  in  some  \»oody  dale, 

Where,  smiling  with  blue  eye,  domestic  bliss 

Gives  this  the  husband's,  that  the  brother's  kiss  I 

Thus  rudely  versed  in  allegoric  lore, 
The  hill  of  knowledge  I  essayed  to  trace ; 
That  verd'rous  hill  with  many  a  resting-place 
And  many  a  stream,  whose  warbling  waters  pour 
To  glad  and  fertilize  the  subject  plains  ; 
That  hill  with  secret  springs,  and  nooks  untrod, 
And  many  a  fancy-blest  arid  holy  sod 
Where  inspiration,  his  diviner  strains 
Low-murm'ring,  lay  ;  and  starting  from  the  rocks 
Stiff  evergreens,  whose  spreading  foliage  mocks 
Want's  barren  soil,  and  the  bleak  frosts  of  age, 
And  mad  oppression's  thunder-clasping  rage  I 


EARLY  POEMS.  63 


O  meek  retiring  spirit !  we  will  climb, 
Cheering  and  cheered,  this  lovely  bill  sublime  ) 
And  from  the  stirring  world  uplifted  high 
(Whose  noises  faintly  wafted  on  the  wind 
To  quiet  musings  shall  attune  the  mind, 
And  oft  the  melancholy  theme  supply), 
There  while  the  prospect  thro'  the  gazing  eye 
Pours  all  its  healthful  greenness  on  the  soul, 
We'll  laugh  at  wealth,  arid  learn  to  laugh  at  fame, 
Our  hopes,  our  knowledge,  and  our  joys  the  same, 
As  neighb'ring  fountains  image  each  the  whole. 


RELIGIOUS   MUSINGS. 

A  DESULTORY  POEM,  WRITTEN  ON  THE   CHRISTMAS  EVE  OF  1794 

What  tho'  first, 

In  years  unseason'd,  I  attuned  the  lay 
To  idle  passion  and  unreal  woe  ? 
Yet  serious  truth  her  empire  o'er  my  song 
Hath  now  asserted  :  falsehood's  evil  brooq. 
Vice  and  deceitful  pleasure,  she  at  once 
Excluded,  and  my  fancy's  careless  toil 
Drew  to  the  better  cause  ! — Akenside. 


ARGUMENT. 

Introduction.  Person  of  Christ.  His  prayer  on  the  cross.  The  process  of  his  doc- 
trines on  the  mind  of  the  individual.  Character  of  the  elect.  Superstition. 
Digression  to  the  present  war.  Origin  and  uses  of  government  and  property.  The 
present  state  of  society.  French  revolution.  Millennium.  Universal  redemption. 
Conclusion. 

THIS  is  the  time,  when,  most  divine  to  hear, 

The  voice  of  adoration  rouses  me, 

As  with  a  cherub's  trump  :  and  high  upborne, 

Yea,  mingling  with  the  choir,  I  seem  to  view 

The  vision  of  the  heavenly  multitude, 

Who  hymned  the  song  of  peace  o'er  Bethlehem's  fields ! 

Yet  Thou  more  bright  than  all  the  angel  host 
That  harbingered  thy  birth,  Thou,  Man  of  Woes  I 
Despised  Galilaean  !  For  the  Great 
Invisible  (by  symbols  only  seen) 


64  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


With  a  peculiar  and  surpassing  light 

Shines  from  the  visage  of  th'  oppressed  good  man, 

When  heedless  of  himself  the  scourged  saint 

Mourns  for  the  oppressor.     Fair  the  vernal  mead, 

Fair  the  high  grove,  the  sea,  the  sun,  the  stars  \ 

True  impress  each  of  their  creating  Sire  ! 

Yet  nor  high  grove,  nor  many-colored  meads, 

Nor  the  green  ocean  with  his  thousand  isles, 

Nor  the  starred  azure,  nor  the  sovran  sun, 

E'er  with  such  majesty  of  portraiture 

Imaged  the  supreme  beauty  uncreate, 

As  Thou,  meek  Saviour  !  at  the  fearful  hour 

When  thy  insulted  anguish  winged  the  prayer 

Harped  by  archangels,  when  they  sing  of  mercy ! 

Which  when  the  Almighty  heard,  from  forth  his  throne, 

Diviner  light  filled  heaven  with  ecstasy  ! 

Heav'n's  hymnings  paused  :  and  hell  her  yawning  inouth 

Closed  a  brief  moment. 

Lovely  was  the  death 

Of  Him,  whose  life  was  love  !     Holy  with  power 
He  on  the  thought-benighted  skeptic  beamed 
Manifest  Godhead,  melting  into  day 
What  floating  mists  of  dark  idolatry 
Broke  and  misshaped  the  Omnipresent  Sire  : 
And  first  by  fear  uncharmed  the  droused  soul, 
Till  of  its  nobler  nature  it  'gan  feel 
Dim  recollections  ;  and  thence  soared  to  hope, 
Strong  to  believe  whate'er  of  mystic  good 
Th'  Eternal  dooms  for  his  immortal  sons. 
From  hope  and  firmer  faith  to  perfect  love 
Attracted  and  absorbed  :  and  centred  there 
God  only  to  behold,  and  know,  and  feel, 
Till  by  exclusive  consciousness  of  God 
All  self-annihilated  it  shall  make 
God  its  identity  :  God  all  in  all  1 
We  and  our  Father  one  ! 

And  blest  are  they, 

Who  in  this  fleshly  world,  the  elect  of  heaven, 
Their  strong  eye  darting  thro'  the  deeds  of  men, 
Adore  with  steadfast  unpresuming  gaze 
Him,  nature's  essence,  mind,  and  energy  ' 
And  gazing,  trembling,  patiently  ascend,  0 

Treading  beneath  their  feet  all  visible  things 
As  steps,  that  upward  to  their  Father's  thronn 


EARLY  POEMS,  65 


Lead  gradual — else  nor  glorified  nor  loved. 
They  nor  contempt  imbosom  nor  revenge  : 
For  they  dare  know  of  what  may  seem  deform 
The  supreme  fair  sole  Operarit :  in  whose  sight 
AH  things  are  pure,  his  strong  controlling  love 
Alike  from  all  educing  perfect  good. 

Theirs,  too,  celestial  courage,  inly  armed, 
Dwarfing  earth's  giant  brood,  what  time  they  muse 
On  their  great  Father,  great  beyond  compare  ! 
And  marching  onwards  view  high  o'er  their  heads 
His  waving  banners  of  omnipotence. 

They  cannot  dread  created  might,  who  love 

God,  the  Creator  ! — fair  arid  lofty  thought ! 

It  lifts  and  swells  my  heart !     And  as  I  muse, 

Behold  !  a  vision  gathers  in  my  soul, 

Voices  and  shadowy  shapes  !     In  human  guise 

I  seem  to  see  the  phantom,  fear,  pass  by, 

Hotly  pursued,  and  pale  !     From  rock  to  rock 

He  bounds  with  bleeding  feet,  and  thro'  the  swamp. 

The  quicksand,  and  the  groaning  wilderness, 

Struggles  with  feebler  and  yet  feebler  flight. 

But  lo  !  an  altar  in  the  wilderness, 

And  eagerly,  yet  feebly,  lo  !  he  grasps 

The  altar  of  the  living  God  !  and  there 

With  wan  reverted  face  the  trembling  wretch 

AH  wildly  list'ning  to  his  hunter-fiends 

Stands,  till  the  last  faint  echo  of  their  yell 

Dies  in  the  distance.     Soon  refreshed  from  heaven 

He  calms  the  throb  and  tempest  of  his  heart. 

His  countenance  settles  :  a  soft  solemn  bliss 

Swims  in  his  eyes  ;  his  swimming  eyes  upraised  ; 

And  faith's  whole  armor  girds  his  limbs  !     And  thui 

Transfigured,  with  a  meek  and  dreadless  awe, 

A  solemn  hush  of  spirit,  he  beholds 

All  things  of  terrible  seeming  :  yea,  unmoved 

Views  e'en  th'  immitigable  ministers 

That  shower  down  vengeance  on  these  latter  days. 

For  even  these  on  wings  of  healing  come, 

Yea,  kindling  with  intenser  Deity 

From  the  celestial  mercy-seat  they  speed, 

And  at  the  renovating  wells  of  love 

Have  filled  their  vials  with  salutary  wrath, 

To  sickly  nature  more  medicinal 

Than  what  sweet  balm  the  weeping  good  man  pours 

Into  the  lone,  despoiled  traveler's  wounds  I 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


Thus  from  th'  elect,  regenerate  thro'  faith, 

Pass  the  dark  passions  *  and  what  thirsty  cares 

Drink  up  the  spirit  and  the  dim  regards 

Self-centre.     Lo,  they  vanish  !  or  acquire 

New  names,  new  features — by  supernal  grace 

Enrobed  with  light,  and  naturalized  in  heaven. 

As  when  a  shepherd  on  a  vernal  morn 

Thro'  some  thick  fog  creeps  tim'rous  with  slow  foot, 

Darkling  with  earnest  eyes  he  traces  out 

Th'  immediate  road,  all  else  of  fairest  kind 

Hid  or  deform 'd.     But  lo  !  the  burning  sun  ! 

Touched  by  the  enchantment  of  that  sudden  beam 

Straight  the  black  vapor  melteth,  and  in  globes 

Of  dewy  glitter  gems  each  plant  and  tree ; 

On  every  leaf,  on  every  blade  it  hangs  ; 

Dance  glad  the  new-born  intermingling  rays, 

And  wide  around  the  landscape  streams  with  glory  J 

There  is  one  Mind,  one  omnipresent  Mind, 

OmnifiCo     His  most  holy  name  is  Love. 

Tiuth  of  subliming  import !  with  the  which 

Who  feeds  and  saturates  his  constant  soul, 

He  from  his  small  particular  orbit  flies 

With  blest  outstarting  !  from  himself  he  flies,   . 

Stands  in  the  sun,  and  with  no  partial  gaze 

Views  all  creation  ;  and  he  loves  it  all, 

And  blesses  it,  and  calls  it  very  good! 

This  is  indeed  to  dwell  with  the  Most  High  ! 

The  cherubs  and  the  trembling  seraphim 

Can  press  no  nearer  to  th'  Almighty's  throne. 

But  that  we  roam  unconscious,  or  with  hearts 

Unfeeling  of  our  universal  Sire, 

Haply  for  this  some  younger  angel  now 

Looks  down  on  human  nature  :  and,  behold  1 

A  sea  of  blood  bestrewed  with  wrecks,  where  mad 

Embattling  interests  on  each  other  rush 

With  unhelmed  rage  ! 

'Tis  the  sublime  of  man, 
Our  noontide  majesty,  to  know  ourselves 
Parts  and  proportions  of  one  wondrous  whole ! 
This  fraternizes  man,  this  constitutes 


*  Our  evil  pasHioiiH  under  the  influence  of  religion  become  innocent,  and  may  b» 
made  to  animate  our  virtue— in  the  same  manner  as  the  thick  mist,  melted  by  thesuii, 
iiicn-MScH  the  li^'lit  which  it  had  before  excluded.  In  the  preceding  paragraph,  agree- 
ably to  this  truth,  we  had  allegorically  narrated  the  transfiguration  of  fear  into  holy 
awe. 


EARL*   POEMS.  C7 


Our  charities  and  bearings.     But  'tis  God 

Diffused  thro'  all,  that  doth  make  all  one  whole ;    ' 

This  the  worst  superstition,*  him  except 

Aught  to  desire,  supreme  reality  ! 

The  plenitude  and  permanence  of  bliss  ! 

0  fiends  of  superstition  !  not  that  oft 

The  erring  priest  hath  stained  with  brother's  blood 
Your  grisly  idols,  not  for  this  may  wrath 
Thunder  against  you  from  the  Holy  One  ! 
But  o'er  some  plain  that  steameth  to  the  sun, 
Peopled  with  death  ;  or  where  mom  hideous  trade 
Loud-laughing  packs  his  bales  of  human  anguish  ; 

1  will  raise  up  a  mourning,  O  ye  fiends! 

And  curse  your  spells,  that  film  the  eye  of  faith, 

Hiding  the  present  God  ;  whose  presence  lost, 

The  moral  world's  cohesion,  we  become 

An  anarchy  of  spirits  !     Toy-bewitched, 

Made  blind  by  lusts,  disherited  of  soul, 

No  common  centre,  man  no  common  sire 

Krioweth  !     A  sordid,  solitary  thing, 

'Mid  countless  brethren,  with  a  lonely  heart 

Thro'  courts  and  cities  the  smooth  savage  roams, 

Feeling  himself,  his  own  low  self,  the  whole  ; 

When  he  by  sacred  sympathy  might  make 

The  whole  one  self  !  self,  that  no  alien  knows  ! 

Self,  far  diffused  as  fancy's  wing  can  travel ! 

Self,  spreading  still  !  oblivious  of  its  own, 

Yet  all  of  all  possessing !     This  is  faith  ! 

This  is  the  Messiah's  destined  victory  ! 

But  first  offences  needs  must  come  !     Even  now 

(Black  hell  laughs  horrible — to  hear  the  scoff  !) 

Thee  to  defend,  meek  Galilaean  !     Thee 

And  thy  mild  laws  of  love  unutterable, 

Mistrust  and  enmity  have  burst  the  bands 

Of  social  peace  ;  and  list'ning  treachery  lurks 

With  pious  fraud  to  snare  a  brother's  life ; 

And  childless  widows  o'er  the  groaning  land 

Wail  numberless  ;  and  orphans  weep  for  bread  ! 

Thee  to  defend,  dear  Saviour  of  mankind  1 

Thee,  Lamb  of  God  !     Thee,  blameless  Prince  of  Peace! 

*  If  to  make  aught  but  the  supreme  reality  the  object  of  final  pursuit,  be  super- 
stition ;  if  the  attributing  of  sublime  properties  to  things  or  persons,  which  tic  ge 
things  or  persons  neither  do  or  can  possess,  be  superstition  ;  then  avarice  and  ambition 
are  superstitions  ;  and  he  who  wishes  to  estimate  the  evils  of  superstition  shouH 
transport  himself,  not  to  the  temple  of  the  Mexican  deities,  but  to  the  plains  of  Flan- 
ders, or  the  coast  of  Africa.— Such  is  the  sentiment  conveyed  in  tliis  and  the  subse. 
quern  lines. 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


From  all  sides  rush  the  thirsty  brood  of  war  ! 

Austria,  and  that  foul  woman  of  the  north, 

The  lustful  murd'ress  of  her  wedded  lord ! 

And  he,  connatural  mind  !   whom  (in  their  songs 

So  bards  of  elder  time  had  haply  feign'd) 

Some  fury  fondled  in  her  hate  to  man, 

Bidding  her  serpent  hair  in  a  mazy  surge 

Lick  his  young  face,  and  at  his  mouth  inbreathe 

Horrible  sympathy  !      And  leagued  with  these 

Each  petty  German  princeling,  nursed  in  gore! 

Soul-hardened  barterers  of  human  blood  ! 

Death's  prime  slave- merchants  ;  scorpion- whips  of  fate! 

Nor  least  in  savagery  of  holy  zeal, 

Apt  for  the  yoke,  th3  race  degenerate, 

Whom  Britain  erst  had  blushed  to  call  her  sons: 

Thee  to  defend  the  Moloch  priest  prefers 

The  praver  of  hate,  and  bellows  to  the  herd 

That  Djity,  accomplice  Deity, 

In  the  fierce  jealousy  of   wakened  wrath, 

Will  go  forth  with  our  armies  arid  our  fleets 

To  scatter  the  red  ruin  on  their  foes  ! 

O  blasphemy  !  to  mingle  fiendish  deeds 

With  blessedness  ! 

Lord  of  unsleeping  love,* 
From  everlasting  Thou  !     We  shall  not  die. 
These,  even  these,  in  mercy  didst  thou  form, 
Teachers  of  good  thro'  evil,  by  brief  wrong 
Making  truth  lovely,  and  her  future  might 
Magnetic  o'er  the  fixed  untrembling  heart. 

In  the  primeval  age,  a  dateless  while, 

The  vacant  shepherd  wandered  with  his  flock, 

Pitching  his  tent  where'er  the  green  grass  waved. 

But  soon  imagination  conjured  up 

An  host  of  new  desires  :  with  busy  r,im, 

Each  for  himself,  earth's  eager  children  toiled. 

So  property  began,  twy-streaming  fount, 

When  vice  and  virtue  flow,  honey  and  gall. 

Hence  the  soft  couch,  and  many-colored  robe, 


* 'Art  thou  not  from  everlasting,  O  Lord,  mine  Holy  One  '.'  We  shall  not  die.  O 
Lord,  thou  hast  ordained  them  for  judgment,*  &<•.,  Habakkuk  i.  12.  In  this  paragraph 
the  author  r  -culls  himself,  from  his  indignat  ion  against  I  he  instruments  of  evil,  to  con- 
template the  y/.sv.s'  of  these  e\  ils  in  tin;  great  process  of  Divine  benevolence.  In  the 
iirHfage  men  were  innocent  from  ignorance  of  vice;;  they  fell,  that  hy  the  knowledge 
of  ron^e'ine-nces  they  might  attain  intellectual  necurity,  i.  e.,  virtue,  which  is  a  wise 
and  Ptrong-nerved  innocence. 


EARLY  POEMS.  69 


The  timbrel,  and  arched  dome,  and  costly  feast, 
With  all  th'  inventive  arts,  that  nursed  the  soui 
To  forms  of  beauty,  and  by  sensual  wants 
Unsensualized  the  mind,  which  in  the  means 
Learned  to  forget  the  groesness  of  the  end, 
Best  pleasured  with  its  own  activity. 
And  hence  disease  that  withers  manhood's  arm, 
The  daggered  envy,  spirit-quenching  want, 
Warriors,  and  lords,  and  priests — all  the  sore  ills 
That  vex  and  desolate  our  mortal  life  : 
Wide-wasting  ills  !  yet  each  th'  immediate  source 
Of  mightier  good.     Their  keen  necessities 
To  ceaseless  action  goading  human  thought 
Have  made  earth's  reasoning  animal  her  lord  ; 
And  the  pale-featured  sage's  trembling  hand 
Strong  as  an  host  of  armed  deities. 

From  avarice  thus,  from  luxury  and  war, 
Sprang  heavenly  science  j  and  from  science  freedom. 
O'er  wakened  realms  philosophers  and  bards 
Spread  in  concentric  circles  :  they  whose  souls, 
Conscious  of  their  high  dignities  from  God, 
Brook  not  wealth's  rivalry  ;  and  they  who,  long 
Enamoured  with  the  charms  of  order  hate 
Th'  unseemly  disproportion  :  and  whoe'er 
Turn  with  mild  sorrow  from  the  victor's  car 
And  the  low  puppetry  of  thrones,  to  muse 
On  that  blest  triumph,  when  the  patriot  sage 
Called  the  red  lightnings  from  th'  o'er-rushing  cload 
And  dashed  the  beauteous  terrors  on  the  earth; 
Smiling  majestic.     Such  a  phalanx  ne'er 
Measured  firm  paces  to  the  calming  sound 
Of  Spartan  flute  !     These  on  the  fated  dUy, 
When,  stung  to  rage  by  pity,  eloquent  men 
Have  roused  with  pealing  voice  th'  unnumbered  tribaG 
That  toil  and  groan  and  bleed,  hungry  and  blind, 
These,  hushed  awhile  with  patient  eye  serene, 
Shall  watch  the  mad  careering  of  the  storm  ; 
Then  o'er  the  wild  and  wavy  chaos  rush 
And  tame  th'  outrageous  mass,  with  plastic  might 
Moulding  confusion  to  such  perfect  forme, 
As  erst  were  wont,  bright  visions  of  the  day ! 
To  float  before  their,  when,  the  summer  noon, 
Beneath  some  arched  romanti    rock  reclined 
They  felt  the  sea-breeze  lift  tneir  youthful  locks 
Or  in  the  month  of  blossoms,  at  mild  eve, 


70  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


Wandering  with  desultory  feet,  inhaled 
The  wafted  perfumes,  gazing  on  the  woods, 
The  many-tinted  streams,  and  setting  sun 
With  all  his  gorgeous  company  of  clouds, 
In  ecstasy  !  then  homeward  as  they  stray'd 
Cast  the  sad  eye  to  earth,  and  inly  mused 
Why  there  was  misery  in  a  world  so  fair. 

Ah,  far  removed  from  all  that  glads  the  sense, 

From  all  that  softens  or  ennobles  man. 

The  wretched  many  !     Bent  beneath  their  loads 

They  gape  at  pageant  power,  nor  recognize 

Their  cots'  transmuted  plunder  !  from  the  tree 

Of  knowledge,  ere  the  vernal  sap  had  risen, 

Rudely  disbranched  !     Evil  society  ! 

Fitliest  depictured  by  some  sun-scorcht  waste, 

Where  oft  majestic  thro'  the  tainted  noon 

The  simoon  sails,  before  whose  purple  pomp 

Who  falls  not  prostrate  dies  !  and  where,  by  night, 

Fast  by  each  precious  fountain  on  green  herbs 

The  lion  couches  ;  or  hyaena  dips 

Deep  in  the  lucid  stream  his  gore-stained  jaws  ; 

Or  serpent  plants  his  vast  moon-glittering  bulk, 

Caught  in  whose  monstrous  twine  behemoth  *  yells, 

His  bones  loud-crashing ! 

O  ye  numberless, 

Ye,  whom  oppression's  ruffian  gluttony 
Drives  from  the  feast  of  life  !     O  thou  poor  wretch, 
Who  nursed  in  darkness  and  made  wild  by  want 
Roamest  for  prey,  yea,  thy  unnatural  hand 
Dost  lift  to  deeds  of  blood !     O  pale-eyed  form, 
The  victim  of  seduction,  doomed  to  know 
Nights  of  pollution,  days  of  blasphemy  ; 
Who  in  thy  orgies  with  loathed  wassailers 
Must  gayly  laugh,  while  thy  remembered  home 
Gnaws  like  a  viper  at  thy  secret  heart! 
O  agi'd  women  !  ye  who  weekly  catch 
The  morsel  tost  by  law-forced  charity, 
And  die  so  slowly,  that  none  call  it  murder ! 
O  loathly  suppliants!  ye  that  unreceived 
Totter  heart-broken  from  the  closing  gates 
Of  the  full  lazar-house  ;  or,  gazing,  stand 
Sick  with  dcspuir  !     O  ye  to  glory's  field 

*  Behemoth  in  Hebrew  signifies  wild  beasts  in  general.  Some  believe  it  is  the 
elephant,  some  th<;  hippopotamus  ;  some  affirm  it  is  the  wild-bull.  Poetically,  it 
designates  any  large  quadruped. 


EARLY  POEMS.  71 


Forced  or  ensnared,  who,  as  ye  gasp  in  death, 
Bleed  with  new  wounds  beneath  the  vulture's  beak! 
O  thou  poor  widow,  who  in  dreams  dost  view 
Thy  husband's  mangled  corse,  and  from  short  doze 
Start'st  with  a  shriek  ;  or  in  thy  half-thatched  cot 
Waked  by  the  wintry  night-storm,  wet  and  cold, 
Cower'st  o'er  thy  screaming  baby  !    Rest  awhile, 
Children  of  wretchedness  !  more  groans  must  rise, 
More  blood  must  steam,  or  ere  your  wrongs  be  fulJ 
Yet  is  the  day  of  retribution  nigh  : 
The  Lamb  of  God  hath  opened  the  fifth  seal : 
And  upward  rush  on  swiftest  wing  of  fire 
Th'  innumerable  multitude  of  wrongs 
By  man  on  man  inflicted  !     Rest  awhile, 
Children  of  wretchedness  !  the  hour  is  nigh 
And  lo  !  the  great,  the  rich,  the  mighty  men, 
The  kings  and  the  chief  captains  of  the  world, 
With  all  that  fixed  on  high  like  stars  of  heaven 
Shot  baleful  influence,  shall  be  cast  to  earth, 
Vile  arid  down-trodden,  as  the  untimely  fruit 
Shook  from  the  fig-tree  by  a  sudden  storm. 
Ev'n  now  the  storm  begins  :  each  gentle  name, 
Faith  and  meek  piety,  with  fearful  joy 
Tremble  far  off — for  lo  !  the  giant  frenzy, 
Uprooting  empires  with  his  whirlwind  arm, 
Mocketh  high  Heaven  ;  burst  hideous  from  the  cell 
Where  the  old  hag,  unconquerable,  huge, 
Creation's  eyeless  drudge,  black  ruin,  sits 
Nursing  th'  impatient  earthquake. 

O  return  : 

Pure  faith  !  meek  piety  !     The  abhorred  form 
Whose  scarlet  robe  was  stiff  with  earthly  pomp, 
Who  drank  iniquity  in  cups  of  gold, 
Whose  names  were  many  and  all  blasphemous, 
Hath  met  the  horrible  judgment !     Whence  that  cry  ? 
The  mighty  army  of  foul  spirits  shrieked, 
Disherited  of  earth  !     For  she  hath  fallen 
On  whose  black  front  was  written  Mystery  ; 
She  that  reeled  heavily,  whose  wine  was  blood  ; 
She  that  worked  whoredom  with  the  demon  power, 
And  from  the  dark  embrace  all  evil  things 
Brought  forth  and  nurtured — mitred  atheism  ; 
And  patient  folly,  who  on  bended  knee 
Gives  back  the  steel  that  stabbed  him  ;  and  pale  fear, 
Hunted  by  ghastlier  shapings  than  surround 


72  COLERIDGE 'S  POEMS. 


Moon-blasted  madness  when  he  yells  at  midnight  I 

Return,  pure  faith  !  return,  meek  piety ! 

The  kingdoms  of  the  world  are  yours :  each  heart 

Self-governed,  the  vast  family  of  love, 

Raised  from  the  common  earth  by  common  toil, 

Enjoy  the  equal  produce.     Such  delights 

As  float  to  earth,  permitted  visitants ! 

When  in  some  hour  of  solemn  jubilee 

The  massy  gates  of  Paradise  are  thrown 

Wide  open,  and  forth  come  in  fragments  wild 

Sweet  echoes  of  unearthly  melodies, 

And  odors  snatched  from  beds  of  amaranth, 

And  they,  that  from  the  crystal  river  of  life 

Spring  up  on  freshened  wing,  ambrosial  gales ! 

The  favored  good  man  in  his  lonely  walk 

Perceives  them,  and  his  silent  spirit  drinks 

Strange  bliss  which  he  shall  recognize  in  heaven. 

And  such  delights,  such  strange  beatitude 

Seize  on  my  young  anticipating  heart 

When  that  blest  future  rushes  on  my  view ! 

For  in  his  own  and  in  his  Father's  might 

The  Saviour  comes !  while  as  the  thousand  years  * 

Lead  up  their  mystic  dance,  the  desert  shouts  ! 

Old  Ocean  claps  his  hands !     The  mighty  dead 

Rise  to  new  life,  whoe'er  from  earliest  time 

With  conscious  zeal  had  urged  love's  wondrous  plan, 

Coadjutors  of  God.     To  Milton's  trump 

The  high  groves  of  the  renovated  earth 

Unbosom  their  glad  echoes :  inly  hushed 

Adoring  Newton  his  sererier  eye 

Raises  to  heaven  :  arid  he  of  mortal  kind 

Wisest,  hef  first  who  mark'd  the  ideal  tribes 

Up  the  fine  fibres  thro'  the  sentient  brain 

Pass  in  fine  surges.     Pressing  on  his  steps, 

Lo  !  Priestley  there,  patriot,  and  saint,  and  sage  \ 

Him,  full  of  years,  from  his  loved  native  land 

Statesmen  blood-stained  and  priests  idolatrous, 

By  dark  lies  madd'ning  the  blind  multitude, 

Drove  with  vain  hate.     Calm,  pitying  he  retired, 

And  in  used  expectant  on  these  promised  years. 

•  The  millennium  :— in  which"!  suppose,  that  man  will  continue  to  enjoy  the  highest 
glory  of  which  his  human  nature  is  capable. — That  all  who  in  p::st  ages  have  en- 
dcavo:ed  to  ameliorate  the  Plate  of  man,  will  rise  and  enjoy  the  fruit.,  and  flowers, 
the  imperceptible;  seeds  of  which  they  had  .sown  in  their  former  life  ;  and  that  the 
wicked  will,  during  the  same  period,  be  suffering  the  remedies  adapted  to  their  several 
bad  habits.  I  suppose  that  this  period  will  be  lollowed  by  the  passing  away  of  this 
earth,  and  by  our  entering  the  state  of  pure  intellect ;  when  all  creation  shall  rest 
from  its  labors.  t  David  Hartley. 


EARLY  POEMS, 


0  years  !  the  blest  preeminence  of  saints  ! 

Ye  sweep  athwart  my  gaze,  so  heavenly  bright, 
The  wings  that  veil  th'  adoring  seraph's  eyes, 
What  time  he  bends  before  the  jasper  throne,* 
Reflect  no  lovelier  hues  !  yet  ye  depart, 
And  all  beyond  is  darkness  !    Heights  most  strange, 
Whence  fancy  falls,  fluttering  her  idle  wing. 
For  who  of  woman  born  may  paint  the  hour, 
When,  seized  in  his  mid  course,  the  sun  shall  wane, 
Making  noon  ghastly  !     Who  of  woman  born 
May  image,  how  the  red-eyed  fiend  outstretcht 
Beneath  the  unsteady  feet  of  Nature  groans, 
In  feverish  slumbers — destined  then  to  wake, 
When  fiery  whirlwinds  thunder  his  dread  name, 
Destruction  !  when  the  sons  of  morning  shout, 
The  angels  shout,  Destruction  ! — How  his  arm 
The  last  great  spirit  lifting  high  in  air 
Shall  swear  by  Him,  the  ever-living  One 
Time  is  no  more  ! 

Believe  thou,  O  my  soul, 
Life  is  a  vision  shadowy  of  truth  ; 
And  vice  and  anguish,  and  the  wormy  grave, 
Shapes  of  a  dream  !     The  veiling  clouds  retire, 
And  lo  !  the  throne  of  the  redeeming  God 
Wraps  in  one  light  earth,  heaven,  and  deepest  hell. 

Contemplant  spirits  !  ye  that  hover  o'er 

With  untired  gaze  th'  immeasurable  fount 

Ebullient  with  creative  Deity  ! 

And  ye  of  plastic  power,  that  interfused 

Roll  thro'  the  grosser  and  material  mass 

In  organizing  surge !  Holies  of  God  ! 

(And  what  if  monads  of  the  infinite  mind  ?) 

1  haply  journeying  my  immortal  course 

Shall  sometime  join  your  mystic  choir !     Till  then 

I  discipline  my  young  noviciate  thought 

In  ministeries  of  heart-stirring  song, 

And  aye  on  meditation's  heaven-ward  wing 

Soaring  aloft  I  breathe  th'  empyreal  air 

Of  love,  omnific,  omnipresent  love, 

Whose  day-spring  rises  glorious  in  my  soul 

As  the  great  sun,  when  he  his  influence 

Sheds  on  the  frost-bound  waters — The  glad  stream 

Flows  to  the  ray  and  warbles  as  it  flows. 


*  Rev.  iv.  2.  a 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


THE  DESTINY  OF  NATIONS. 

A  VISION. 

AUSPICIOUS  reverence  !    Hush  all  meaner  song, 
Ere  we  the  deep  preluding  strain  have  poured 
To  the  Great  Father,  only  Rightful  King, 
Eternal  Father  !  King  Omnipotent ! 
To  the  Will  Absolute,  the  One,  the  Good  ! 
The  I  AM,  the  Word,  the  Life,  the  Living  God  ! 

Such  symphony  requires  best  instrument. 
Seize,  then,  my  soul !  from  Freedom's  trophied  dome 
The  harp  which  hangeth  high  between  the  shields 
Of  Brutus  and  Leonidas  !     With  that 
Strong  music,  that  soliciting  spell,  force  back 
Man's  free  and  stirring  spirit  that  lies  entranced. 

For  what  is  freedom,  but  the  unfettered  use 
Of  all  the  powers  which  God  for  use  had  given  ? 
But  chiefly  this,  him  first,  him  last,  to  view 
Through  meaner  powers  arid  secondary  things 
Effulgent,  as  through  clouds  that  veil  his  blaze. 
For  all  that  meets  the  bodily  sense  I  deem 
Symbolical,  one  mighty  alphabet 
For  infant  minds  ;  and  we  in  this  low  world 
Placed  with  our  backs  to  bright  reality, 
That  we  may  learn  with  young  unwounded  ken 
The  substance  from  its  shadow.     Infinite  Love, 
Whose  latence  is  the  plentitude  of  all, 
Though  with  retracted  beams,  and  self-eclipse 
Veiling,  revealest  thine  eternal  Sun. 

But  some  there  are  who  deem  themselves  most  free 
When  they  within  this  gros   and  visible  sphere 
Chain  down  the  winged  thought,  scoffing  ascent, 
Proud  in  their  meanness  :  and  themselves  they  cheat 
With  noisy  emptiness  of  learned  phrase, 
Their  subtle  fluids,  impacts,  essences, 
Self- working  tools,  uncaused  effects,  and  all 
Those  blind  omnisctents,  those  almighty  slave.1 , 
Untenanting  creation  of  its  God. 

But  properties  are  God  :  the  naked  mass 
(Tf  mass  there  be,  fantastic  guess  or  ghost) 
Acts  only  by  its  inactivity. 
Here  we  pause  humbly.     Others  boldlier  think 


*EAP,LY  POEMS.  75 


That  as  one  body  seems  the  aggregate 
Of  atoms  nitmberless,  each  organized  ; 
So  by  a  strange  and  dim  similitude 
Infinite  myriads  of  self-conscious  minds 
Are  one  all-conscious  Spirit,  which  informs 
With  absolute  ubiquity  of  thought 
(His  one  eternal  self-affirming  act !) 
All  his  involved  Monads,  that  yet  seeru 
With  various  province  and  apt  agency 
Each  to  pursue  its  own  self-centring  end. 
Some  nurse  the  infant  diamond  in  the  mine  ; 
Some  roll  the  genial  juices  through  the  oak  ; 
Some  drive  the  mutinous  clouds  to  clash  in  air, 
And  rushing  on  the  storm  with  whirlwind  speed, 
Yoke  the  red  lightnings  to  their  volleying  car. 
Thus  these  pursue  their  never- varying  course, 
No  eddy  in  their  stream.     Others,  more  wild, 
With  complex  interests  weaving  human  fates, 
Duteous  or  proud,  alike  obedient  all, 
Evolve  the  process  of  eternal  good. 

And  what  if  some  rebellious  o'er  dark  realms 
Arrogate  power  ?  yet  these  train  up  to  God, 
And  on  the  rude  eye,  unconfirmed  for  day, 
Flash  meteor-lights  better  than  total  gloom. 
As  ere  from  Lieule-Oaive's  vapory  head 
The  Laplander  beholds  the  far-off  sun 
Dart  his  slant  beam  on  unobeying  snows, 
Wnile  yet  the  stern  arid  solitary  night 
Brooks  no  alternate  sway,  the  Boreal  Morn 
With  mimic  lustre  substitutes  its  gleam, 
Guiding  his  course  or  by  Niemi  lake 
Or  Balda  Zhiok,*  or  the  mossy  stone 
Of  Solfar-kapper,f  while  the  snowy  blast 
Drifts  arrowy  by,  or  eddies  round  his  sledge 
Making  the  poor  babe  at  its  mother's  backt 

*  Balda  Zhiok  ,  i.  e.  mons  altitudinus,  the  highest  mountain  in  Lapland. 

t  Solfar-kapper  ;  capitium  Solfar,  hie  locus  omnium  quotquot  veterum  Lapponum 
?uperstitio  sacrifices  religios  oque  cultui  dedicavit,  celebratissimus  erat,  in  parte  sinus 
australis  situs  semimilliaris  spatio  a  mari  distans.  Ipse  locus,  queni  curiositatis  gratia 
aliquando  me  invisisse  memini,  duahus  prealtis  lapidibus,  sibi  invicem  oppositis, 
quorum  alter  musco  circumdatus  erat,  constabat. — Lecmiug  de  Lapponibus. 

4.  The  Lapland  women  carry  their  infants  at  their  back  in  a  piece  of  excavated 
wood,  which  serves  them  for  a  cradle.  Opposite  to  the  infant's  mouth  there  is  a  hole 
for  it  to  breathe  through. — Mirandum  prorsus  est  et  vix  credibile  nisi  cui  vidisse  con- 
tigit.  Lappones  hyeme  iter  facientes  per  vastos  niontes,  perque  horrida  et  in  via  tesqua, 
eo  presertim  tempore  quo  omnia  perpetuis  nivibus  obtecta  sunt  et  nives  ventis  agitan- 
tur  et  in  gyros  aguntur,  viam  ad  destinata  loca  absque  errore  invenire  posse,  lactantem 
autem  infantem  si  quern  habeat,  ipsa  mater  in  dorso  bajulat,  in  excavatio  ligno  (Gied'k 
ipsi  vocant)  quod  pro  cunis  utuntur  :  in  noc  iufans  paunis  et  pellibus  convolutus  colli' 
gatus  jacet.— Leemius  de  Lapponibus. 


7 6  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

Scream  in  its  scant}'  cradle  :  he  the  while 
Wins  gentle  solace  as  with  upward  eye 
He  marks  the  streamy  banners  of  the  North 
Thinking  himself  those  happy  spirits  shall  join 
Who  there  in  floating  robes  of  rosy  light 
Dance  sportively.     For  fancy  is  the  power 
That  first  unsensualizes  the  dark  mind. 
Giving  it  new  delights  ;  and  bids  it  swell 
With  wild  activity  ;  and  peopling  air, 
By  obscure  fears  of  beings  invisible, 
Emancipates  it  from  the  grosser  thrall 
Of  the  present  impulse,  teaching  self-control, 
Till  Superstition  with  unconscious  hand 
Seat  Reason  on  her  throne.     Wherefore  not  vain, 
Nor  yet  without  permitted  power  impressed, 
I  deem  those  legends  terrible,  with  which 
The  polar  ancient  thrills  his  uncouth  throng  ; 
Whether  of  pitying  Spirits  that  make  their  moan 
O'er  slaughtered  infants,  or  that  giant  bird 
Vuokho,  of  whose  rushing  wings  the  noise 
.Is  tempest,  when  the  unutterable*  shape 
Speeds  from  the  mother  of  Death,  and  utters  once 
That  shriek,  which  never  nrarderer  heard,  and  Kved. 

Or  if  the  Greenland  Wizard  in  strange  trance 
Pierces  the  untra veiled  realms  of  Ocean's  bed 
Over  the  abysm,  even  to  that  uttermost  cave 
By  mis-shaped  prodigies  beleaguered,  such 
As  earth  ne'er  bred,  nor  air,  nor  the  upper  sea: 
Where  dwells  the  Fury  Form,  whose  unheard  name 
With  eager  eye,  pale  cheek,  suspended  bre&th, 
And  lips  half-opening  with  the  dread  of  sound, 
Unsleeping  Silence  guards,  worn  out  with  fear 
Lest  haply  'scaping  on  some  treacherous  blast 
The  fateful  word  let  slio  the  elements 
And  frenzy  Nature.     Yet  the  wizard  her, 
Armed  with  Torngarsuck's  f  power,  the  Spirit  of  Good, 
Forces  to  unchain  the  foodful  progeny 

Of  the  Ocean  stream  ; thence  thro'  the  realm  of  Souls, 

Where  live  the  Innocent,  as  far  from  cares 

*  Jaibine  Aibnio. 

t  They  call  the  Good  Spirit  Torngarsuck,  The  other  great  but  malignant  spirit  is  a 
nameless  female  ;  she  dwelUt  under  the  sea  in  a  great  house,  where  she  can  detain  in 
captivity  all  the  animals  of  the  ocean  by  her  magic  power.  When  a  death  befalls  the 
Greenlanders,  an  Angekok,  or  niagician.nmst  undertake  a  journey  thither,  lie  passes 
through  the  kingdom  of  souls,  over  a  horrible  abyss  into  the  Palace  of  this  phantom, 
and  b;r  his  enchantment!  causes  the  captive  creature!  to  ascend  directly  to  the  surface 
of  the  ocean.-  -Se?  Cranli's  History  qf  Greenland,  vol.  i.  200. 


EARLY  POEMS,  77 

As  from  the  storms  and  overwhelming  waves 
That  tumble  on  the  surface  of  the  deep, 
Returns  with  far- heard  pant,  hotly  pursued 
By  the  fierce  Warders  of  the  Sea,  once  more, 
Ere  by  the  frost  foreclosed,  to  repossess 
His  fleshly  mansion,  that  had  staid  the  while 
In  the  dark  tent  within  a  cow'ring  group 
Untenanted. — Wild  phantasies  !  yet  wise, 
On  the  victorious  goodness  of  high  God 
Teaching  reliance,  and  medicinal  hcpe, 
Till  from  Bethabra  northward,  heavenly  Truth 
With  gradual  steps,  winning  her  difficult  way, 
Transfer  their  rude  Faith  perfected  and  pure. 

If  there  be  beings  of  higher  class  than  Man, 
I  deem  no  nobler  province  they  possess, 
Than  by  disposal  of  apt  circumstance 
To  rear  up  ^kingdoms  :  and  the  deeds  they  prompt, 
Distinguishing  from  mortal  agency, 
They  choose  their  human  ministers  from  such  states 
As  still  the  Epic  song  half  fears  to  name, 
Repelled  from  all  the  minstrelsies  that  strike 
The  palace-roof  and  soothe  the  monarch's  pride.* 

And  such,  perhaps,  the  Spirit,  who  (if  words 
Witnessed  by  answering  deeds  may  claim  our  faith) 
Held  commune  with  that  warrior-maid  of  France 
Who  scourged  the  Invader.     From  her  infant  days, 
With  Wisdom,  mother  of  retired  thoughts, 
Her  soul  had  dwelt ;  and  she  was  quick  to  mark 
The  good  and  evil  thing,  in  human  lore 
Undisciplined.     For  lowly  was  her  birth, 
And  Heaven  had  doomed  her  early  years  to  toil, 
That  pure  from  tyranny's  least  deed,  herself 
TJnfeared  by  fellow-natures,  she  might  wait 
On  the  poor  laboring  man  with  kindly  looks, 
And  minister  refreshment  to  the  tired 
Way- wanderer,  when  along  the  rough-hewn  bench 
The  sweltry  man  had  stretched  him,  and  aloft 
Vacantly  watched  the  rudely-pictured  board 
Which  on  the  mulberry-bough  with  welcome  creak 
Swung  to  the  pleasant  breeze.     Here,  too,  the  Maid 
Learnt  more  than  schools  could  teach*:  Man's  shifting  mind, 
His  vices  and  his  sorrows  !     And  full  oft 
At  tales  of  cruel  wrong  and  strange  distress 
Had  wept  anc?  shivered.     To  the  tottering  eld 


7S  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


Still  as  a  daughter  would  she  run  :  she  placed 
His  cold  limbs  at  the  sunny  door,  and  loved 
To  hear  him  story,  in  his  garrulous  sort, 
Of  his  eventful  years,  all  come  and  gone. 

So  twenty  seasons  past.     The  Virgin's  form, 
Active  and  tall,  nor  sloth  nor  luxury 
Had  shrunk  or  paled.     Her  front  sublime  and  broad, 
Her  flexile  eye-brows  wildly  haired  and  low, 
And  her  full  eye,  now  bright,  now  unillumined, 
Spake  more  than  Woman's  thought ;  and  all  her  face 
Was  moulded  to  such  features  as  declared 
That  pity  there  had  oft  and  strongly  worked, 
And  sometimes  indignation.     Bold  her  mien- 
And  like  a  haughty  huntress  of  the  woods 
She  moved  :  yet  sure  she  was  a  gentle  maid  ( 
And  in  each  motion  her  most  innocent  soul 
Beamed  forth  so  brightly,  that  who  saw  would  say 
Guilt  was  a  thing  impossible  in  her  \ 
Nor  idly  would  have  said — for  she  had  lived 
In  this  bad  World,  as  in  a  place  of  tombs, 
And  touched  not  the  pollutions  of  the  dead. 

'Twas  the  cold  season,  when  the  rustic's  eye 
From  the  drear  desolate  whiteness  of  his  fields 
Rolls  for  relief  to  watch  the  skyey  tints  ' 
And  clouds  slow  varying  their  huge  imagery  : 
When  now,  as  she  was  wont,  the  healthful  Maid 
Had  left  her  pallet  ere  one  beam  of  day 
Slanted  the  fog-smoke.     She  went  forth  alone 
Urged  by  the  indwelling  angel-guide,  that  oft, 
With  dim  inexplicable  sympathies 
Disquieting  the  heart,  shapes  out  Man's  "course 
To  the  predoomed  adventure.     Now  the  ascent 
She  climbs  of  that  steep  upland,  on  whose  top 
The  Pilgrim-man,  who  long  since  eve  had  watched 
The  alien  shine  of  unconcerning  stars, 
Shouts  to  himself,  there  first  the  Abbey-lights 
Seen  in  Neufchatel's  vale  ;  now  slopes  adown 
The  winding  sheep-track  vale-ward  :  when,  behold 
In  the  first  entrance  to  the  level  road 
An  unattended  team  !     The  foremost  horse 
Lay  with  stretched  limbs  ;  the  others,  yet  alive 
But  stiff  and" cold,  stood  motionless,  their  manes 
Hoar  with  the  frozen  night-dews.     Dismally 
The  dark-red  dawn  now  glimmered  ;  but  its  gleams 
Disclosed  no  face  of  man.     The  Maiden  paused, 


EARLY  POEMS.  79 


Then  hailed  who  might  be  near.     No  voice  replied. 

From  the  thwar  wain  at  length  there  reached  her  ear 

A  sound  so  feebly  that  it  almost  seemed 

Distant ;  and  feebly,  with  slow  effort  pushed, 

A  miserable  man  crept  forth :  his  limbs 

The  silent  frost  had  eat,  scathing  like  fire. 

Paint  on  the  shafts  he  rested.     She,  meantime, 

Saw  crowded  close  beneath  the  coverture 

A  mother  and  her  children — lifeless  ail, 

Yet  lovely !  not  a  lineament  was  marred — 

Death  had  put  on  so  slumber-like  a  form  ! 

It  was  a  piteous  sight ;  and  one,  a  babe, 

The  crisp  milk  frozen  on  its  innocent  lips, 

Lay  on  the  woman's  arm,  its  little  hand 

Stretched  on  her  bosom. 

Mutely  questioning, 

The  Maid  gazed  wildly  at  the  living  wretch. 
He,  his  head  feebly  turning,  on  the  group 
Looked  with  a  vacant  stare,  and  his  eye  spoke 
The  drowsy  calm  that  steals  on  worn-out  anguish. 
She  shuddered  ;  but,  each  vainer  pang  subdued, 
Quick  disentangling  from  the  foremost  horse 
The  rustic  bands,  with  difficulty  and  toil 
The  stiff  cramped  team  forced  homeward.     There  arrived, 
Anxiously  tends  him  she  with  healing  herbs, 
And  weeps  and  prays — but  the  numb  power  of  Death 
Spreads  o;er  his  limbs  ;  and  ere  the  noontide  hour. 
The  hovering  spirits  of  his  wife  and  babes 
Hail  him  immortal !     Yet  amid  his  pangs, 
With  interruptions  long  from  ghastly  throes, 
His  voice  had  faltered  out  this  simple  tale. 

The  village,  where  he  dwelt  a  husbandman, 
By  sudden  inroad  had  been  seized  and  fired 
Late  on  the  yester-evening.     With  his  wife 
And  little  ones  he  hurried  his  escape. 
They  saw  the  neighboring  hamlets  flame,  they  heard 
Uproar  and  shrieks  !  and  terror-struck  drove  on 
Through  unfrequented  roads,  a  weary  way  ! 
But  saw  nor  house  nor  cottage.     All  had  quenched 
Their  evening  hearth-fire  :  for  the  alarm  had  spread 
The  air  clipped  keen,  the  night  was  fanged  with  frost, 
And  they  provisionless  !     The  weeping  wife 
111  hushed  her  children's  moans  ;  and  still  they  moaned, 
Till  fright  and  cold  and  hunger  drank  their  life. 


80  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


They  closed  their  eyes  in  sleep,  nor  knew  'twas  death. 

He  only,  lashing  his  o'er- wearied  team, 

Gained  a  sad  respite,  till  beside  the  base 

Of  the  high  hill  his  foremost  horse  dropped  dead. 

Then  hopeless,  strengthiess.  sick  for  lack  of  food, 

He  crept  beneath  the  coverture,  entranced, 

Till  wakened  by  the  maiden. — Such  his  tale. 

Ah  !  suffering  to  the  height  of  what  was  suffered, 
Stung  with  too  keen  a  sympathy,  the  Maid 
Brooded  with  moving  lips,  mute  startful,  dark  ! 
And  now  her  flushed  tumultuous  features  shot 
Such  strange  vivacity,  as  fires  the  eye 
Of  misery  fancy-crazed  !  and  now  once  more 
Naked,  and  void,  and  fixed,  and  all  within 
The  unquiet  silence  of  confused  thought 
And  shapeless  feelings.     For  a  mighty  hand 
Was  strong  upon  her,  till  in  the  heat  of  soul 
To  the  high  hill-top,  tracing  back  her  steps, 
Aside  the  beacon,  up  whose  smouldered  stones 
The  tender  ivy- trails  crept  thinly,  there, 
Unconscious  of  the  driving  element, 
Yea,  swallowed  up  in  the  ominous  dream,  she  sate 
Ghastly  as  broad-eyed  Slumber  !  a  dim  anguish 
Breathed  from  her  look  !  and  still  with  pant  and  sob, 
Inly  she  toiled  to  flee,  and  still  subdued, 
Felt  an  inevitable  Presence  near. 

Thus,  as  she  toiled  in  troublous  ecstasy, 
A  horror  of  great  darkness  wrapt  her  round, 
And  a  voice  uttered  forth  unearthly  tones, 
Calming  her  soul,—'  O  Thou  of  the  Most  High 
Chosen,  whom  all  the  perfected  in  Heaven 
Behold  expectant  — 
[The  following  fragments  were  intended  to  form  part  of  the  poeia  when  finished.] 

'  Maid  beloved  of  Heaven ! 
(To  her  the  tutelary  Power  exclaimed) 
Of  Chaos  the  adventurous  progeny 
Thou  seest ;  foul  missionaries  of  foul  sire, 
"Fierce  to  regain  the  losses  of  that  hour 
When  Love  rose  glittering,  and  his  gorgeous  wings 
Over  the  abyss  fluttered  with  such  glad  noise, 
As  what  time  after  long  and  pestful  calms, 
With  slimy  shapes  and  miscreated  life 
Poisoning  the  vast  Pacific,  the  fresh  breeze 


EARLY  POEMS  5 1 


Wakens  the  merchant-sail  uprising.     Night 

A  heavy  unimaginable  moan 

Sent  forth,  when  she  the  Protoplast  beheld 

Stand  beauteous  on  confusion's  charmed  wave. 

Moaning  she  fled,  and  entered  the  Profound 

That  leads  with  downward  windings  to  the  cave 

Of  darkness  palpable,  desert  of  Death 

Sunk  deep  beneath  Gehenna's  massy  roots. 

There  many  a  dateless  age  the  beldam  lurked 

And  trembled  ;  till  engendered  by  fierce  Hate, 

Fierce  Hate  and  gloomy  Hope,  a  dream  arose, 

Shaped  like  a  black  cloud  marked  with  streaks  of  fire. 

It  roused  the  Hell-Hag:  she  the  dew  damp  wiped 

From  off  her  brow,  and  through  the  uncouth  maze 

Retraced  her  steps  ;  but  ere  she  reached  the  mouth 

Of  that  drear  labyrinth,  shuddering  she  paused, 

Nor  dared  re-enter  the  diminished  Gulf. 

As  through  the  dark  vaults  of  some  mouldered  tower 

(Which,  fearful  to  approach,  the  evening  hind 

Circles  at  distance  in  his  homeward  way) 

The  winds  breathe  hollow,  deemed  the  plaining  groan 

Of  prisoned  spirits  ;  with  such  fearful  voice 

Night  murmured,  and  the  sound  thro'  Chaos  went. 

Leaped  at  her  call  her  hideous-fronted  brood  ! 

A  dark  behest  they  heard,  and  rushed  on  earth  ; 

Since  that  sad  hour,  in  camps  and  courts  adored, 

Rebels  from  God,  and  tyrants  o'er  Mankind  ! ' 


From  his  obscure  haunt 
Shrieked  Fear,  of  Cruelty  the  ghastly  dam, 
Feverous  yet  freezing,  eager-paced  yet  slow, 
As  she  that  creeps  from  forth  her  swampy  reeds, 
Ague,  the  biform  hag  !  when  early  Spring 
Beams  on  the  marsh- bred  vapors. 


c  Even  so  (the  exulting  Maiden  said) 
The  sainted  heralds  of  good  tidings  fell, 
And  thus  they  witnessed  God  !     But  now  the'clouds 
Treading,  and  storms  beneath  their  feet,  they  soar 
Higher,  and  higher  soar,  and  soaring  sing 
Loud  songs  of  triumph       O  ye  spirits  of  God, 
Hover  round  my  mortal  agonies  ! ' 
She  spake,  and  instantly  faint  melody 
Melts  on  her  ear,  soothing  and  sad,  and  slow, 


S2  COLEKTDG&S  POEMS. 


Such  measures,  as  at  calmest  midnight  heard 
By  aged  hermit  in  his  holy  dream, 
Foretell  and  solace  death  ;  and  now  they  rise 
Louder,  as  when  with  harp  and  mingled  voice 
The  white-robed  *  multitude  of  slaughtered  saints 
At  Heaven's  wide-opened  portals  gratulant 
Receive  some  martyred  patriot.     The  harmony 
Entranced  the  Maid,  till  each  suspended  sense 
Brief  slumber  seized,  and  confused  ecstasy. 

At  length  awakening  slow,  she  gazed  around  : 
And  through  a  mist,  the  relique  of  that  trance, 
Still  thinning  as  she  gazed,  an  Isle  appeared, 
Its  high,  o'er-hanging,  white,  broad-breasted  cliffs9 
Glassed  on  the  subject  ocean.     A  vast  plain 
Stretched  opposite,  where  ever  and  anon 
The  plough-man  following  sad  his  meagre  team 
Turned  up  fresh  skulls  unstartled,  and  the  bones 
Of  fierce  hate-breathing  combatants,  who  there 
All  mingled  lay  beneath  the  common  earth, 
Death's  gloomy  reconcilement !     O'er  the  fields 
Stept  a  fair  Form,  repairing  all  she  might, 
Her  temples  olive- wreathed  ;  and  where  she  trod 
Fresh  flowerets  rose,  and  many  a  foodful  herb. 
But  wan  her  cheek,  her  footsteps  insecure, 
And  anxious  pleasure  beamed  in  her  faint  eye, 
As  she  had  newly  left  a  couch  of  pain, 
Pale  convalescent !  (yet  some  time  to  rule 
With  power  exclusive  o'er  the  willing  world, 
That  blest  prophetic  mandate  then  fulfilled — 
Peace  be  on  Earth  !)    A  happy  while,  but  brief, 
She  seemed  to  wander  with  assiduous  feet, 
Arid  healed  the  recent  harm  of  chill  and  blight, 
And  nursed  each  plant  that  fair  and  virtuous  grew. 

But  soon  a  deep  precursive  sound  moaned  hollow  : 
Black  rose  the  clouds,  and  now  (as  in  a  dream) 
Their  reddening  shapes,  transformed  to  warrior-hosts 
Coursed  o'er  the  sky,  and  battled  in  mid-air. 
Nor  did  not  the  large  blood-drops  fall  from  heaven 
Portentous  !  while  aloft  were  seen  to  float, 
Like  hideous  features  booming  on  the  mist, 
Wan  stains  of  ominous  light!   Resigned,  yet  sad, 

*  Revelations,  vi.  9,  11.  And  when  lie  had  opened  the  fifth  seal,  1  saw  under  the 
altar  the  souls  of  them  that  were  ;slain  for  the  word  of  God,  and  for  the  testimony  which 
they  beld.  And  white  robes  were  given  unto  every  one  of  them,  and  it  was  sa'd  unto 
them,  that  they  should  rest  yet  for  a  little  season,  until  their  fellow-servants  also  and 
their  brethru.1,  that  should  be  killed  as  they  were,  should  be  fulfilled. 


EARL  Y  POEMS  83 


The  fair  Form  bowed  her  olive-crowned  brow, 
Then  o'er  the  plain  with  oft  reverted  eye 
Fled  till  a  place  of  tombs  she  reached,  arid  there 
Within  a  ruined  sepulchre  obscure 
Found  hiding-place. 

The  delegated  Maid 

Gazed  through  her  tears,  then  in  sad  tone.1'  exclaimed  • 
'Thou  mild-eyed  Form  !  wherefore,  ah  !  wherefore  fled  "i 
The  power  of  Justice,  like  a  name  all  light, 
Shone  from  thy  brow  j  but  all  they,  who  unblamed 
Dwelt  in  thy  dwellings,  call  thee  Happiness. 
Ah  !  why,  uninjured  and  unprofited, 
Should  multitudes  against  their  brethren  rush  ? 
Why  sow  they  guilt,  still  reaping  misery  ? 
Lenient  of  care,  thy  songs,  O  Peace  !  are  sweet, 
As  after  showers  the  perfumed  gale  of  eve, 
That  flings  the  cool  drops  on  a  feverous  cheek  ; 
And  gay  thy  grassy  altar  piled  with  fruits. 
But  boasts  the  shrine  of  demon  War  one  charm, 
Save  that  with  many  an  orgie  strange  and  foul, 
Dancing  around  with  interwoven  arms, 
The  maniac  Suicide  and  giant  Murder 
Exult  in  their  fierce  union  !  I  am  sad, 
And  know  not  why  the  simple  peasants  crowd 
Beneath  the  Chieftains'  standard ! '     Thus  the  Maid. 

To  her  the  tutelary  Spirit  said  : 
*  When  luxury  and  lust's  exhausted  stores 
No  more  can  rouse  the  appetites  of  kings  ; 
When  the  low  flattery  of  their  reptile  lords 
Falls  flat  a,nd  heavy  on  the  accustomed  ear  ; 
When  eunuchs  sing,  and  fools  buffoonery  make, 
And  dancers  writhe  their  harlot-limbs  in  vain  ; 
Then  War  and  all  its  dread  vicissitudes 
Pleasingly  agitate  their  stagnant  hearts ; 
Its  hopes,  its  fears,  its  victories,  its  defeats, 
Insipid  royalty's  keen  condiment  I 
Therefore  uninjured  and  unprofited 
(Victims  at  once  and  executioners), 
The  congregated  husbandmen  lay  waste 
The  vineyard  and  the  harvest.     As  along 
The  Bothnic  coast,  or  southward  of  the  Line, 
Though  hushed  the  winds  and  cloudless  the  high  noon 
Yet  if  Leviathan,  weary  of  ease, 
In  sports  unwieldy  toss  his  island-bulk, 


84  COLERIDGE'S  POEKTS. 


Ocean  behind  him  billows,  and  before 

A  storm  of  waves  breaks  foamy  on  the  strand. 

Ar\d  hence,  for  times  and  seasons  bloody  and  dark, 

Short  Peace  shall  skin  the  wounds  of  causeless  War, 

And  War,  his  strained  sinews  knit  anew, 

Still  violate  the  unfinished  works  of  Peace. 

But  yonder  look  !  for  more  demands  thy  view  ! ' 

He  said  :  arid  straightway  from  the  opposite  Isle 

A  vapor  sailed,  as  when  a  cloud,  exhaled 

From  Egypt's  fields  that  steam  hot  pestilence, 

Travels  the  sky  for  many  a  trackless  league, 

Till  o'er  some  death-doomed  land,  distant  in  vain. 

It  broods  incumbent.     Forthwith  from  the  plain, 

Facing  the  Isle,  a  brighter  cloud  arose, 

And  steered  its  course  which  way  the  vapor  went. 

The  Maiden  paused,  musing  what  this  might  mean. 
But  long  time  passed  not,  ere  that  brighter  cloud 
Returned  more  bright ;  along  the  plain  it  swept ; 
And  soon  from  forth  its  bursting  sides  emerged 
A  dazzling  form,  broad -bosomed,  bold  of  eye, 
And  wild  her  hair,  save  where  with  laurels  bound. 
Not  more  majestic  stood  the  healing  God, 
When  from  his  bow  the  arrow  sped  that  slew 
Huge  Python.     Shriek'd  Ambition's  giant  throng, 
And  with  them  hissed  the  locust- fiends  that  crawled 
And  glittered  in  Corruption's  slimy  track. 
Great  was  their  wrath,  for  short  they  knew  their  reign  ; 
And  such  commotion  made  they,  and  uproar, 
As  when  the  mad  tornado  bellows  through 
The  guilty  islands  of  the  western  main, 
What  time  departing  from  their  native  shores, 
Eboe,  or  Koronuintyn's*  plain  of  palms, 
The  infuriate  spirits  of  the  murdered  make 
Fierce  merriment,  arid  vengeance  ask  of  Heaven. 


•  The  Slaves  in  the  West-Indies  consider  death  as  a  passport  *o  their  native  country. 
This  sentiment  is  thus  expressed  iu  the  Introduction  to  a  Greek  Pnce-Oae  on  the 
glare-Trad*,  of  which  the  thoughts  are  better  than  the  language  111  which  they  am 
Hmvcyed. 

*"  O  CTKOTOV  TrvAas  ®avaTe,  irpo\(iir<av 
' 


Ou  £fvia6ri<Tfl  ytvvtav 
Ov6' 


'AAAa  Kac  ACUKAoto't 


KauTMy  \aP'}' 
'AAA'  «MU>?  'EAeuOepi'a 
Srvvcc  'I'v 


EARL  Y  POEMS. 


Warmed  with  new  influence,  the  unwholesome  plain 
Sent  up  its  foulest  fogs  to  meet  the  morn  : 
The  sun  that  rose  on  Freedom,  rose  in  blood  ! 

*  Maiden  beloved  and  Delegate  of  Heaven  ! 
(To  her  the  tutelary  Spirit  said), 
Soon  shall  the  morning  struggle  into  day, 
The  stormy  morning  into  cloudless  noon. 
Much  hast  thou  seen,  nor  all  canst  understand  — 
But  this  be  thy  best  omen—  Save  thy  Country  !  ' 
Thus  saying,  from  the  answering  Maid  he  passed, 
And  with  him  disappeared  the  heavenly  Vision. 

'  Glory  to  Thee,  Father  of  Earth  and  Heaven  ! 
All-conscious  presence  of  the  Universe  ! 
Nature's  vast  ever-acting  energy  ! 
In  will,  in  deed,  impulse  of  All  to  All  ! 
Whether  thy  Love  with  unrefracted  ray 
Beam  on  the  Prophet's  purged  eye,  or  if 
Diseasing  realms  the  enthusiast,  wild  of  thought, 
Scatter  new  frenzies  on  the  infected  throng, 
Thou  both  inspiring  and  predooming  both, 
Fit  instruments  and  best,  of  perfect  end  : 
Glory  to  Thee,  Father  of  Earth  and  Heaven  !  ' 

And  first  a  landscape  rose 
More  wild  and  waste  and  desolate  than  where 
The  white  bear,  drifting  on  a  field  of  ice, 
Howls  to  her  sundered  cubs  with  piteous  rage 
And  savage  agony. 


t?  €7r    TTTCpu-yeaa't  crrcri 
'A  !  ^aAaaoHot'  Kaflo 


narpiS'  err'  alai/. 

.CLV  'Epaerat  'Epw/u.ei'jjo'ii' 
ijyY]<Tiv  Kirpiywc  i>7r   aA.erwi', 
"Oacr'  urro  /3pOT<us  enaQov  /Sporoi,  ra 
A  tit'  a  \eyovri, 

LITERAL  TRANSLATION. 

Leaving  the  gates  of  darkness,  O  Death  !  hasten  thou  to  a  race  yoked  with  misery  ! 
Thou  wilt  not  be  received  with  lacerations  of  cheeks,  nor  with  funeral  ul  ulatiou—  but 
with  circling  dances  and  the  joy  of  songs.  Thou  art  terrible  indeed,  yet  thou  dvvellost 
with  Liberty,  stern  Genius  !  Borne  on  thy  dark  pinions  over  the  swelling  of  Ocean. 
they  return  to  their  native  country.  There,  by  the  side  of  fountains  beneath  cKj-oa- 
groves,  the  lovers  tell  to  their  beloved  what  horrors,  being  men,  they  had  endured 
from  men. 


So  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


THE  RAVEN. 

CHRISTMAS    TALE,   TOLD     BY     A     SCHOOL-BOY    TO     HIS     LITTLE 
BROTHERS   AND   SISTERS. 

UNDERNEATH  an  old  oak  tree 

There  was  of  swine  a  huge  company 

That  grunted  as  they  crunched  the  mast : 

For  that  was  ripe,  and  fell  full  fast. 

Then  they  trotted  away,  for  the  wind  grew  high  : 

One  acorn  they  left,  and  no  more  might  you  spy. 

Next  came  a  Raven,  that  liked  not  such  folly  : 

He  belonged,  they  did  say,  to  the  witch  Melancholy  I 

Blacker  was  he  than  blackest  jet, 

Flew  low  in  the  rain,  and  his  feathers  not  wet. 

He  picked  up  the  acorn  and  buried  it  straight 

"By  the  side  of  a  river  both  deep  and  great. 

Where  then  did  the  Raven  go  ? 

He  went  high  and  low, 
Over  hill,  over  dale,  did  the  black  Raven  go. 

Many  Autumns,  many  Springs, 

Travelled  he  with  wandering  wings : 

Many  Summers,  many  Winters — 

I  can't  tell  half  his  adventures. 

At  length  he  came  back,  and  with  him  a  She, 

And  the  acorn  was  grown  to  a  tall  oak  tree. 

They  built  them  a  nest  in  the  topmost  bough, 

And  young  ones  they  had,  and  were  happy  enow. 

But  soon  came  a  woodman  in  leathern  guise, 

His  brow,  like  a  pent-house,  hung  over  his  eyes. 

He'd  an  axe  in  his  hand,  not  a  word  he  spoke. 

But  with  many  a  hern  !  and  a  sturdy  stroke, 

At  length  he  brought  down  the  poor  Raven's  own  oak. 

His  young  ones  were  killed,  for  they  could  not  depart, 

And  their  mother  did  die  of  a  broken  heart. 

The  boughs  from  the  trunk  the  woodman  did  sever ; 

And  they  floated  it  down  on  the  course  of  the  river. 

They  sawed  it  in  planks,  and  its  bark  they  did  strip, 

And  with  this  tree  and  others  they  made  a  good  ship. 

The  ship,  it  was  launched  ;  but  in  sight  of  the  land 

Such  a  storm  there  did  rise  as  no  ship  could  withstand. 

It  bulged  on  a  rock,  and  the  waves  rushed  in  fast : 

Round  and  round  flew  the  Raven,  and  cawed  to  the  blast. 

He  heard  the  last  shriek  of  the  perishing  souls — 

See  !  See  !  o'er  the  topmast  the  mad  water  rolls  I 


EARLY  POEMS. 


Right  glad  was  the  Raven,  and  off  he  went  fleet, 
And  Death  riding  home  on  a  cloud  he  did  meet, 
^.id  he  thanked  him  again  and  again  for  this  treat  : 

They  had  taken  his  all,  and  Revenge  it  was  sweet! 


TIME,  REAL  AND  IMAGINARY. 

AN   ALLEGORY. 

ON  the  wide  level  of  a  mountain's  head, 
(I  knew  not  where,  but  'twas  some  fairy  place) 
Their  pinions,  ostrich-like,  for  sails  outspread, 
Two  lovely  children  run  an  endless  race, 

A  sister  and  a  brother  ! 

That  far  outstripp'd  the  other ; 
Yet  ever  runs  she  with  reverted  face, 
And  looks  and  listens  for  the  boy  behind : 

For  he,  alas  !  is  blind  ! 

O'er  rough  and  smooth  with  even  step  he  passed, 
And  knows  not  whether  he  be  first  or  last. 


THE  FOSTER  MOTHER'S  TALE. 

A   DRAMATIC   FRAGMENT. 

Ter.  But  that  entrance,  Selma  ? 

Sel.  Can  no  one  hear  ?    It  is  a  perilous  tale ! 

Ter.  No  one. 

Sel.  My  husband's  father  told  it  me, 

Poor  old  Sesina — angels  rest  his  soul ; 
He  was  a  woodman,  and  could  fell  arid  saw 
With  lusty  arm.     You  know  that  huge  round  beam 
Which  props  the  hanging  wall  of  the  old  chapel  ? 
Beneath  that  tree,  while  yet  it  was  a  tree, 
He  found  a  baby  wrapped  in  mosses,  lined 
With  thistle-beards,  arid  such  small  locks  of  wool 
As  hang  011  brambles.     Well,  he  brought  him  home, 
And  reared  him  at  the  then  Lord  Valdez'  cost, 
And  so  the  babe  grew  up  a  pretty  boy, 
A  pretty  boy,  but  most  unteachable — 
And  never  learn'd  a  prayer,  nor  told  a  bead, 
But  knew  the  names  of  birds,  and  mocked  their  notes, 
And  whistled,  as  he  were  a  bird  himself. 
Arid  all  the  autumn  'twas  his  only  play 


88  COLERIDGE 'S  POEMS. 

To  gather  seeds  of  wild  flowers,  and  to  plant  them 

With  earth  and  water  on  the  stumps  of  trees. 

A  Friar,  who  gathered  simples  in  the  wood, 

A  gray-haired  man,  he  loved  this  little  boy  : 

The  boy  loved  him,  and,  when  the  Friar  taught  him, 

He  soon  could  write  with  the  pen ;  and  from  that  time 

Lived  chiefly  at  the  convent  or  the  castle. 

So  he  became  a  rare  and  learned  youth  : 

But  O  !  poor  wretch  !  he  read,  and  read,  and  read, 

Till  his  brain  turned  ;  and  ere  his  twentieth  year 

He  had  unlawful  thoughts  of  many  things  : 

And  though  he  prayed,  he  never  loved  to  pray 

With  holy  men,  nor  in  a  holy  place. 

But  yet  his  speech,  it  was  so  soft  and  sweet, 

The  late  Lord  Valdez  ne'er  was  wearied  with  him. 

And  once,  as  by  the  north  side  of  the  chapel 

They  stood  together  chained  in  deep  discourse, 

The  earth  heaved  under  them  with  such  a  groan, 

That  the  wall  tottered,  and  had  well  nigh  fallen 

Right  on  their  heads.     My  Lord  was  sorely  frightened  ! 

A  fever  seized  him,  and  he  made  confession 

Of  all  the  heretical  and  lawless  talk 

Which  brought  this  judgment :  so  the  youth  was  seized 

And  cast  into  that  hole.     My  husband's  father 

Sobbed  like  a  child— it  almost  broke  his  heart: 

And  once  as  he  was  working  near  this  dungeon, 

He  heard  a  voice  distinctly  ;  'twas  the  youth's, 

Who  sung  a  doleful  song  about  green  fields, 

How  sweet  it  were  on  lake  or  wide  savanna 

To  hunt  for  food,  arid  be  a  naked  man, 

And  wander  up  and  down  at  liberty. 

He  always  doted  on  the  youth,  and  now 

His  love  grew  desperate  ;  and  defying  death, 

He  made  that  cunning  entrance  I  described, 

And  the  young  man  escaped. 

Ter.  'Tis  a  sweet  tale : 

Such  as  would  lull  a  listening  child  to  sleep, 
His  rosy  face  besoiled  with  ui» wiped  tears. 
And  what  became  of  him  ? 

Set.  He  went  on  shipboard 

With  those  bold  voyagers  who  made  discovery 
Of  golden  lands.     Sesina's  younger  brother 
Went  likewise,  and  when  he  returned  to  Spain, 
He  told  Sesinu,  that  the  poor  mad  youth, 
Soon  after  they  arrived  in  that  new  world, 
In  spite  of  his  dissuasion,  seized  a  boat, 


EARLY  POEMS.  89 


And  all  alone,  set  sail  by  silent  moonlight 

Up  a  great  river,  great  as  any  sea, 

And  ne'er  was  heard  of  more  :   but  'tis  supposed, 

He  lived  and  died  among  the  savage  men. 

LINES 

WRITTEN  AFTER  A  WALK  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

THO'  much  averse,  dear  Jack,  to  flicker, 

To  find  a  likeness  for  friend  V ker, 

I've  made,  thro'  earth,  and  air,  and  sea, 

A  voyage  of  discovery  ! 

And  let  me  add  (to  ward  off  strife) 

For  V kers,  and  for  V kers'  wife — 

She,  large  and  round,  beyond  belief, 

A  superfluity  of  beef  ! 

Her  mind  and  body  of  a  piece, 

And  both  composed  of  kitchen-grease. 

In  short,  dame  Truth  might  safely  dub  her 

Vulgarity  enshrined  in  blubber  ! 

He,  meagre  bit  of  littleness, 

All  snuff,  and  musk,  arid  politesse  ; 

So  thin,  that  strip  him  of  his  clothing, 

He'd  totter  on  the  edge  of  nothing  I 

In  case  of  foe,  he  well  might  hide 

Snug  in  the  collops  of  her  side. 

Ah  then,  what  simile  will  suit  ? 

Spindle  leg  in  great  jack-boot  ? 

Pismire  crawling  in  a  rut, 

Or  a  spigot  in  a  butt  ? 

Thus  I  huiimi'd  arid  ha'd  awhile, 

When  Madam  Memory,  with  a  smile, 

Thus  touched  my  <?ar — '  Why  sure,  I  ween 

In  London  streets  thou  oft  hast  seen 

The  very  image  of  this  pair  : 

A  little  ape,  with  huge  she  bear 

Linked  by  hapless  chain  together: 

An  unlicked  mass  the  one — the  other 

An  antic  huge  with  nimble  crupper  '- 

But  stop,  my  Muse  !  for  here  comes  supper,, 

ON  A  CONNUBIAL  RUPTURE  IN  HIGH  LIFE,  1796 

I  SIGH,  fair  injured  stranger  !  for  thy  fate  ; 

But  what  shall  sighs  avail  thee  ?    Thy  poor  heart, 
'Mid  all  the  '  pomp  and  circumstance '  of  state, 

Shivers  in  nakedness.     Unbidden,  start 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


Sad  recollections  of  hope's  gairish  dream, 

That  shaped  a  seraph  form,  and  named  it  Love, 

Its  hues  gay-  varying,  as  the  orient  beam 
Varies  the  j^eck  of  Cytherea's  dove. 

To  one  soft  accent  of  domestic  joy, 

Poor  are  the  shouts  that  shake  the  high-arched  dome  : 
Those  plaudits,  that  thy  public  path  annoy, 

Alas  !  they  tell  thee—  Thou'rt  a  wretch  at  home  ! 

O  then  retire  and  weep  !     Their  very  woes 
Solace  the  guiltless.     Drop  the  pearly  flood 

On  thy  sweet  infant,  as  the  full-blown  rose, 

Surcharged  with  dew,  bends  o'er  its  neighb'ring  bud. 

And  oh  that  Truth  some  holy  spell  might  lend 
To  lure  thy  wanderer  fiom  the  syren's  power, 

Then  bid  your  souls  inseparably  blend 

Like  two  bright  dewdrops  meeting  in  a  flower. 


ON  THE  CHRISTENING  OF  A  FRIEND'S  CHILD. 

THIS  day  among  the  faithful  placed 

And  fed  with  fontal  manna  ; 
O  with  maternal  title  graced, 

Dear  Anna's  dearest  Anna  I 

While  others  wish  thee  wise  and  fair, 

A  maid  of  spotless  fame, 
I'll  breathe  this  more  compendious  prayer— 

May'st  thou  deserve  thy  name  ! 

Thy  Mother's  name,  a  potent  spell, 

That  bids  the  Virtues  hie 
From  mystic  grove  and  living  cell, 

Confessed  to  Fancy's  eye  : 

Meek  Quietness  without  offence  ; 

Content  in  homespun  kirtle; 
True  Love  ;  and  True  Love's  Innocence, 

White  blossom  of  the  myrtle  I 

Associates  of  thy  name,  sweec  Child  I 
These  Virtues  may'st  thou  win  ; 

With  face  as  eloquently  mild 
To  say,  they  lodge  within. 


EARLY  POEMS.  91 


So,  when  her  tale  of  days  all  flown, 
Thy  mother  shall  be  missed  here  ; 

When  Heaven  at  length  shall  claim  its  own 
And  angels  snatch  their  sister  ; 

Some  hoary-headed  friend,  perchance, 

May  gaze  with  stifled  breath  ; 
And  oft,  in  momentary  trance, 

Forget  the  waste  of  death. 

Ev'n  thus  a  lovely  rose  I  viewed 

In  summer-swelling  pride  ; 
Nor  marked  the  bud,  that,  green  arid  rude, 

Peeped  at  the  rose's  side. 

It  chanced  I  passed  again  that  way, 

In  Autumn's  latest  hour, 
And  wond'ring  saw  the  self-same  spray 

Rich  with  the  self-same  flower. — 

Ah,  fond  deceit !  the  rude  green  bud 

Alike  in  shape,  place,  name, 
Had  bloomed,  where  bloomed  its  parent  stud, 

Another  and  the  same  ! 


SONNET. 

i. 

MY  heart  has  thanked  thee,  Bowles !  for  those  soft  strains 

Whose  sadness  soothes  me,  like  the  murmuring 

Of  wild  bees  in  the  sunny  showers  of  spring  ! 

For  hence  not  callous  to  the  mourner's  pains 

Thro'  Youth's  gay  prime  arid  thorriless  paths  I  went : 

And  when  the  darksr  day  of  life  began, 

And  I  did  roam,  a  thought-bewildered  man! 

Their  mild  and  manliest  melancholy  lent 

A  mingled  charm,  which  oft  the  pang  consigned 

To  slumber,  tho'  the  big  tear  it  renev/ed  : 

Bidding  such  strange  mysterious  pleasure  b::ood 

Over  the  wavy  and  tumultuous  mind, 

As  made  the  soul  enamoured  of  her  w(^e  : 

No  common  praise,  dear  Bard  !  to  thee  I  owe ! 


Q  2  COLE  RID  GE  'S  POEMS. 


II. 

ON   A  DISCOVERY  MADE  TOO  LATE. 

THOU  bleedest,  my  poor  heart !  and  thy  distress 
Reas'ning  I  ponder  with  a  scornful  sm.ile 
And  probe  thy  sore  wound  sternly,  tho'  the  whjlo 

Swollen  be  mine  eye  and  dim  with  heaviness. 

/Vhy  didst  thou  listen  to  Hope's  whisper  bland  ? 
Or  list'ning,  why  forget  the  healing  tale, 
When  Jealousy  with  fev'rish  fancies  pale 

Jarred  thy  fine  fibres  with  a  maniac's  hand  ? 

Faint  was  that  Hope,  and  rayless ! — Yet  'twas  fair, 
And  soothed  with  many  a  dream  the  hour  of  rest : 
Thou  shouldst  have  loved  it  most,  when  most  opprest. 

And  nursed  it  with  an  agony  of  care, 

Even  as  a  Mother  her  sweet  infant  heir, 
That  wan  and  sickly  droops  upon  her  breast ! 

in. 

THOU  gentle  Look,  that  didst  my  soul  beguile, 
Why  hast  thou  left  me  ?     Still  in  some  fond  dream 
Revisit  my  sad  heart,  auspicious  Smile  ! 
As  falls  on  closing  flowers  the  lunar  beam  : 
What  time,  in  sickly  mood,  at  parting  day 
I  lay  me  down  and  think  of  happier  years  ; 
Of  joys,  that  glimmered  in  Hope's  twilight  ray, 
Then  left  me  darkling  in  a  vale  of  tears. 

0  pleasant  days  of  Hope— forever  flown ! 
Could  I  recall  you  ! — But  that  tho jght  is  vain. 
Availeth  not  Persuasion's  sweetest  tone 

To  lure  the  fleet-winged  travellers  back  again  : 
Yet  fair,  tho'  faint,  their  images  shall  gleam 
Like  the  bright  Rainbow  on  an  evening  stream. 

IV. 
TO  THE  RIVER  OTTER. 

DEAR  native  Brook !  wild  Streamlet  of  the  West ! 
How  many  various-fated  years  have  passed, 
What  blissful  and  what  anguished  hours,  since  last 

1  skimmed  the  smooth  thin  stone  along  thy  breast, 

Numbering  its  light  leaps  !     Yet  so  deep  imprest 
Sink  the  sweet  scenes  of  Childhood,  that  mine  eyes 


EARL  Y  POEMS.  93 


I  never  shut  amid  the  sunny  blaze, 

But  straight  with  all  their  tints  thy  waters  rise, 
Thy  crossing  plank,  thy  margin's  willowy  maze, 

And  bedded  sand  that,  veined  with  various  dyes, 
Gleamed  through  thy  bright  transparence  to  the  gaze ! 

Visions  of  Childhood  !  oft  have  ye  beguiled 
Lone  Mahood's  cares,  yet  waking  fondest  sighs, 

Ah  !  that  once  more  I  were  a  careless  child ! 

v. 

SWEET 'Mercy  !  how  my  very  heart  has  bled 
To  see  thee,  poor  old  man  !  and  thy  gray  hairs 
Hoar  with  the  snowy  blast ;   while  no  one  cares 

To  clothe  thy  shrivelled  limbs  and  palsied  head. 

My  Father !  throw  away  this  tattered  vest 

That  mocks  thy  shiv'ring  !  take  my  garment — use 
A  young  man's  arm  !     I'll  melt  these  frozen  dews 

That  hang  from  thy  white  beard  and  numb  thy  breast. 

My  Sara,  too,  shall  tend  thee,  like  a  child  : 
And  thou  shalt  talk,  in  our  fire-side's  recess, 
Of  purple  pride,  that  scowls  on  wretchedness. — 

He  did  not  scowl,  the  Galilsean  mild, 

Who  met  the  Lazar  turned  from  rich  man's  doors, 
And  called  hi  in  Friend,  and  wept  upon  his  sores ! 

VI. 

PALE  Roamer  thro'  the  Night !  thou  poor  forlorn  ! 
Remorse  that  man  011  his  death-bed  possess, 
Who  in  the  credulous  hour  of  tenderness 
Betrayed,  then  cast  thee  forth  to  Want  and  scorn ! 
The  world  is  pityless  °}  the  Chaste  one's  pride, 
Mimic  of  Virtue,  scowls  on  thy  distress  ; 
Thy  kindred,  when  they  see  thee,  turn  aside, 
And  Vice  alone  will  shelter  Wretchedness  ! 

0  !  I  am  sad  to  think,  that  there  should  be 
Men,  born  of  woman,  who  endure  to  place 
Foul  offerings  on  the  shrine  of  Misery, 
And  force  from  Famine  the  caress  of  Love  ! 
Man  has  no  feeling  of  thy  sore  Disgrace : 
Keen  blows  the  blast  upon  the  moulting  dove  1 

VII. 
TO   BURKE. 

As  late  I  lay  in  slumber's  shadowy  vale, 
With  wetted  cheek  and  in  a  mourner's  guise, 

1  saw  the  sainted  form  of  Freedom  rise : 


94  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

She  spake  !  not  sadder  moans  the  autumnal  gale. 

'  Great  Son  of  Genius  !  sweet  to  me  thy  name, 

Ere  in  an  evil  hour  with  altered  voice 

Thou  bad'st  Oppression's  hireling  crew  rejoice, 

Blasting  with  wizard  spell  my  laurelled  fame. 

Yet  never,  Burke  !  thou  drank'st  Corruption's  bowl ! 

Thee  stormy  Pity,  and  the  cherished  lure 

Of  Pomp,  and  proud  Precipitance  of  soul, 

Wildered  with  meteor  fires.     Ah,  Spirit  pure  ! 

That  error's  mist  had  left  thy  purged  eye  : 

So  might  I  clasp  thee  with  a  Mother's  joy !  ' 

VIII. 
TO   MERCY. 

NOT  always  should  the  tear's  ambrosial  dew 

Roll  its  soft  anguish  down  thy  furrowed  cheek! 

Not  always  heaven-breathed  tones  of  suppliance  meek 

Beseem  thee,  Mercy !     Yon  dark  Scowler  view, 

Who  with  proud  words  of  dear-loved  Freedom  came — 

More  blasting  than  the  mildew  from  the  south  ! 

And  kissed  his  country  with  Iscariot  mouth  ; 

(Ah  !  foul  apostate  from  his  Father's  fame  !) 

Then  fixed  her  on  the  cross  of  deep  distress, 

And  at  safe  distance  marks  the  thirsty  lance 

Pierce  her  big  side  !     But  oh  !  if  some  strange  trance 

The  eye-lids  of  thy  stern-browed  Sister  press, 

Seize,  Mercy  !  thou  more  terrible  the  brand, 

And  hurl  her  thunderbolts  with  fiercer  hand  1 

IX. 
TO   PRIESTLEY. 

THO'  roused  by  that  dark  Visir  riot  rude 
Have  driven  our  Priestley  o'er  the  ocean  swell ; 
Tlio'  Superstition  and  her  wolfish  brood 
Bay  his  mild  radiance,  impotent  and  fell  ; 
Calm  in  his  halls  of  Brightness  he  shall  dwell  ; 
For  lo  !  Religion  at  his  strong  behest 
Starts  with  mild  anger  from  the  Papal  spell, 
And  flings  to  Earth  her  tinsel-glittering  vest, 
Her  mitred  state  and  cumbrous  pomp  unholy  ; 
And  Justice  wakes  to  bid  tli'  Oppressor  wail, 
Insulting  aye  the  wrongs  of  patient  folly  ; 
And  from  her  dark  retreat  by  Wisdom  won, 
Meek  Nature  slowly  lifts  her  matron  veil 
To  smile  with  fondness  on  her  gazing  son  I 


EARLY  POEMS.  95 


X. 

TO  ERSKINE. 

WHEN  British  Freedom  for  an  happier  land 

Spread  her  broad  wings,  that  fluttered  with  affright, 

Erskirie  !  thy  voice  she  heard,  and  paused  her  flight 

Sublime  of  hope  !     For  dreadless  thou  didst  stand 

(Thy  censer  glowing  with  the  hallowed  flame) 

An  hireless  Priest  before  th'  insulted  shrine, 

And  at  her  altar  poured'st  the  stream  divine 

Of  unmatched  eloquence.     Therefore  thy  name 

Her  Sons  shall  venerate,  and  cheer  thy  breast 

With  blessings  heavenward  breathed.     And  when  the  doom 

Of  Nature  bids  thee  rise  beyond  the  tomb, 

Thy  light  shall  shine  :  as  sunk  beneath  the  West 

Tho'  the  great  Summer  Sun  eludes  our  gaze, 

Still  burns  wide  Heaven  with  his  distended  blaze. 

XI. 
TO  SHERIDAN. 

IT  was  some  spirit,  Sheridan  !  that  breath'd 

O'er  thy  young  mind  such  wildly-various  power! 

My  soul  hath  marked  thee  in  her  shaping  hour, 

Thy  temples  with  Hymettian  *  flowrets  wreath'd  : 

And  sweet  thy  voice,  as  when  o'er  Laura's  bier 

Sad  music  trembled  thro'  Vauclusa's  glade  ; 

Sweet,  as  at  dawn  the  love-lorn  Serenade 

That  wafts  soft  dreams  to  Slumber's  listening  ear. 

Now  patriot  Rage  and  Indignation  high 

Swell  the  full  tones  !     And  now  thine  eye-b^ams  dance 

Meanings  of  Scorn  and  Wit's  quaint  revelry ! 

Writhes  inly  from  the  bosom-probing  glance 

Th'  Apostate  by  the  brainless  rout  adorer"; 

As  erst  that  elder  Fiend  beneath  great  Michael's  sword. 


*  Hymettian  flowrets.  Hymettus,  a  mountain  near  Athens;  celebrated  for  its  honey. 
This  alludes  to  Mr.  Sheridan's  classical  attainments,  and  the  following  four  ...  iOf  *o  the 
exquisite  sweetness  and  almost  Italian  delicacy  of  his  Poetry.— In  Shakespeare's 
1  /over's  Complaint'  there  is  a  fine  Stanza  almost  prophetically  characteristic  ot  Mr 

So  on  the  tip  of  his  subduing  tongue 
All  kind  of  argument  and  question  deep, 
All  replication  prompt  and  reason  strong 
For  his  advantage,  still  did  wake  and  sleep 
To  make  the  weeper  laugh,  the  laugher  weep  : 
He  had  the  dialect  aud  different  skill, 
Catching  all  passions  in  his  craft  of  will : 
That  he  did  in  the  general  bosom  reign 
Of  young  and  old. 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


XII. 

TO  MRS.   SIDDONS. 

As  when  a  child  on  some  long  winter's  night, 
Affrighted  clinging  to  its  Grandam's  knees, 
With  eager  worid'ring  and  perturbed  delight 
Listens  strange  tales  of  fearful  dark  decrees 
Muttered  to  wretch  by  necromantic  spell  ; 
Or  of  those  hags,  who  at  the  witching  time 
Of  murky  midnight  ride  the  air  sublime, 
Arid  mingle  foul  embrace  with  fiends  of  Hell  : 
Cold  Horror  drinks  its  blood  !     Anon  the  tear 
More  gentle^  starts,  to  hear  the  Beldame  tell 
Of  pretty  babes,  that  loved  each  other  dear, 
Murdered  by  cruel  Uncle's  mandate  fell  : 
Ev'n  such  the  shiv'ring  joys  thy  tones  impart, 
Ev'n  so  thou,  Siddons  1  meltest  iny  sad  heart  I 

XIII. 

TO  LA   FAYETTB. 

As  when  far  off  the  warbled  strains  are  heard 

That  soar  on  Morning's  wing  the  vales  among, 

Within  his  cage  th'  imprisoned  matin  bird 

Swells  the  full  chorus  with  a  generous  song  : 

He  bathes  no  pinion  in  the  dewy  light, 

No  Father's  joy,  no  Lover's  bliss  he  shares, 

Yet  still  the  rising  radiance  cheers  his  sight  — 

His  Fellows'  freedom  soothes  the  Captive's  cares  ! 

Thou,  Fayette  !  who  didst  wake  with  startling  voice 

Life's  better  Sun  from  that  long  wintry  night, 

Thus  in  thy  Country's  triumphs  shalt  rejoice 

And  mock  with  raptures  high  the  dungeon's  might  : 

For  lo  !  the  morning  struggles  into  day, 

And  Slavery's  spectres  shriek  and  vanish  from  the  ray  ! 

XIV. 

COMPOSED  WHILE    CLIMBING    THE    LEFT     ASCENT    OF  BROCKLEY 
COOMB,   IN  THE   COUNTY   OF  SOMERSET,   MAY,    1795. 

WITH  many  a  pause  and  oft  reverted  eye 

I  climb  the  Coomb's  ascent  ;  sweet  songsters  near 

Warble  in  shade  their  wild-wood  melody  : 

Far  off  th'  unvarying  cuckoo  soothes  my  ear. 


EARL  Y  POEMS.  97 


Up  scour  the  startling  stragglers  of  the  flock 

That  on  green  plots  o'er  precipices  browse : 

From  the  forced  fissures *f  the  naked  rock 

The  Yew-tree  bursts  !  Beneath  its  dark  green  bcughs 

(Mid  which  the  May-thorn  blends  its  blossoms  white), 

Where  broad  smooth  stones  jut  out  in  mossy  seats, 

I  rest — And  now  have  gained  the  topmost  site. 

Ah !  what  a  luxury  of  landscape  meets 

My  gaze  !  proud  towers,  and  cots  more  dear  to  me  ; 

Elm-shadowed  fields,  and  prospect-bounding  sea  ; 

Deep  sighs  my  lonely  heart :  I  drop  the  tear  : 

Enchanting  spot  !  O  weie  my  Sara  here  ! 

xv.* 

TO   SCHILLER. 

SCHILLER  !  that  hour  I  would  have  wished  to  die, 
If  thro'  the  shudd'ring  midnight  I  had  sent 
From  the  dark  Dungeon  of  the  Tower  time-rent 

That  fearful  voice,  a  famished  Father's  f  cry — 

That  in  no  after  moment  aught  less  vast 
Might  stamp  me  mortal  !  A  triumphant  shout 
Black  Horror  screamed,  ard  all  her  goblin  rout 

From  the  more  with' ring  scene  diminished  past. 

Ah  !  Bard  tremendous  in  sublimity  ! 
Could  I  behold  thee  in  thy  loftier  mood, 

Wand'ring  at  eve  with  finely  frenzied  eye 

Beneath  some  vast  old  tempest-swinging  wood ! 
Awhile  with  mute  awe  gazing  I  would  brood, 

Then  weep  aloud  in  a  wild  ecstasy  I 

XVI. 
TO  EARL  STANHOPE. 

NOT,  Stanhope  !  with  the  Patriot's  doubtful  name 
I  mock  thy  worth — Friend  of  the  human  race 
Since  scorning  Faction's  low  and  partial  aim, 
Aloof  thou  wendest  in  thy  stately  pace, 


One  night  in  winter  on  leaving  a  College  friend's  room,  with  whom  I  bad  supped. 
I  carelessly  took  away  with  me  The  Robbers,  a  drama,  the  very  name  of  vs  hich  1  had 
never  heard  before  :  A  winter  midnight— the  wind  high  and  The  Robbers  for  the  first 
time.  The  readers  of  Schiller  will  conceive  what  I  felt.  Schiller  introduces  no 
supernatural  beings ;  yet  his  human  beings  agitate  and  astonish  more  than  all  th» 
goblin  rout  even  of  Shakespeare, 
i  The  Father  of  Moor,  in  the  Play  of  The  Bobber*. 


98  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

Thyself  redeeming  from  that  leprous  stain, 

Nobility  :  and  aye  unterrified, 

Pourest  thine  Abdiel  warnings  on  the  train 

That  sit  complotting  with  rebellious  pride 

'Gainst  her,*  who  from  the  Almighty's  bosom  leapt 

With  whirlwind  arm,  fierce  Minister  of  Love  ! 

Wherefore,  ere  Virtue  o'er  thy  tomb  hath  wept, 

Angels  shall  lead  thee  to  the  Throne  above  : 

And  thou  from  forth  its  clouds  shall  hear  the  voice, 

Champion  of  Freedom  and  her  God  !  rejoice  ! 

XVII. 

COMPOSED  ON  A  JOURNEY  HOMEWARD  J  THE  AUTHOR  HAVING  RE 
CEIVED  INTELLIGENCE  OF  THE  BIRTH  OF  A  SON,  SEPT.  20 
1796. 

OFT  o'er  my  brain  does  that  strange  fancy  roll 
Which  makes  the  present  (while  the  flash  dost  last) 
Seem  a  mere  semblance  of  some  unknown  past, 
Mixed  with  such  feelings,  as  perplex  the  soul 
Self-questioned  in  her  sleep  :  and  some  have  said  f 
We  lived  ere  yet  this  fleshy  robe  we  wore. 

0  my  sweet  Baby  !   when  I  reach  my  door, 

If  heavy  looks  should  tell  me,  thou  wert  dead 
(As  sometimes,  thro'  excess  of  hope,  I  fear), 

1  think,  that  I  should  struggle  to  believe 
Thou  wert  a  Spirit,    to  this  nether  sphere 
Sentenced  for  some  more  venial  crime  to  griev 

Didst  scream,  then  spring  to  meet  Heaven's  quick  reprieve, 
While  we  wept  idly  o'er  thy  little  bier. 

XVIII. 
TO  THE   AUTUMNAL  MOON. 

MILD  Splendor  of  the  various-vested  Night  I 
Mother  of  wildly- working  visions  !  hail  ! 
I  watch  thy  gliding,  while  with  wat'ry  light 
Thy  weak  eye  glimmers  thro'  a  fleecy  veil ; 
And  when  thou  lovest  thy  pale  orb  to  shroud 
Behind  the  gathered  blackness  lost  on  high  ; 
And  when  thou  dartest  from  the  wind-rent  cloud 
Thy  placid  lightning  o'er  th'  awakened  sky. 
Ah,  such  is  Hope  !  as  changeful  and  as  fair ! 

«  Gallic  Liberty. 

t  MX  nov  TJTTWI/  n  \livx1)  'P"  fv  TwSc  T«  OLVpOunivu  ec'Sei  yev ca0ai. — Plat,  in  Phofdon. 


EARL  Y  POEMS.  99 


Now  dimly  peering  on  the  wistful  sight ; 
Now  hid  behind  the  dragon- winged  Despair  : 
But  soon  emerging  in  her  radiant  might, 
She  o'er  the  sorrow-clouded  breast  of  Care 
Sails,  like  a  meteor  kindling  in  its  flight. 

XIX. 

TO  A  FRIEND,  WHO  ASKED   HOW   I   PELT  WHEN  THE  NURSE  FIRST 
PRESENTED   MY   INFANT  TO  ME. 

CHARLES  !  my  slow  heart  was  only  sad,  when  first 
I  scanned  that  face  of  feeble  infancy ; 
For  dimly  on  my  thoughtful  spirit  burst 
All  I  had  been,  and  all  my  babe  might  be  I 
But  when  I  saw  it  on  its  Mother's  arm, 
And  hanging  at  her  bosom  (she  the  while 
Bent  o'er  its  features  with  a  tearful  smile), 
Then  I  was  thrilled  and  melted,  and  most  warm 
Impressed  a  Father's  kiss :  and  all  beguiled 
Of  dark  remembrance,  and  presageful  fear, 
I  seemed  to  see  an  Angel's  form  appear  — 
'Twas  even  thine,  beloved  Woman  mild  ! 
So  for  the  Mother's  sake  the  Child  was  dear, 
And  dearer  was  the  Mother  for  the  Child. 

xx.   • 

THE  piteous  sobs  that  choke  the  Virgin's  breath 
For  him,  the  fair  betrothed  Youth,  who  lies 
Cold  in  the  narrow  dwelling,  or  the  cries 

With  which  a  Mother  wails  her  Darling's  death, 

These  from  our  Nature's  common  impulse  spring 
Unblamed,  unpraised  ;  but  o'er  the  piled  earth, 
Which  hides  the  sheeted  corse  of  gray-haired  Worthy 

If  droops  the  soaring  Youth  with  slackened  wing  j 

If  he  recall  in  saddest  minstrelsy 

Each  tenderness  bestowed,  each  truth  impressed  ; 

Such  Grief  is  Reason,  Virtue,  Piety ! 

And  from  the  Almighty  Father  shall  descend 
Comforts  on  his  late  Evening,  whose  young  breast 

Mourns  with  no  transient  love  the  aged  friend. 

XXI. 

PENSIVE,  at  eve,  on  the  hard  world  I  mused, 
And  my  poor  heart  was  sad  :  so  at  the  moon 


ioo  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


I  gazed — and  sighed,  arid  sighed — for,  ah  !  how  soon 

Eve  darkens  into  night.     Mine  eye  perused, 

With  tearful  vacancy,  the  dampy  grass, 

Which  wept  and  glittered  in  the  paly  ray, 

And  I  did  pause  me  on  my  lonely  way, 

And  mused  me  on  those  wretched  ones,  who  pass 

O'er  the  black  heath  of  Sorrow.     But,  alas ! 

Most  of  myself  I  thought :  when  it  befell, 

That  the  sooth  Spirit  of  the  breezy  wood 

Breathed  in  mine  ear — '  All  this  is  very  well  ; 

But  much  of  one  thing  is  for  no  thing  good.' 

Ah  1  my  poor  heart's  inexplicable  swell ! 

XXII. 
TO   SIMPLICITY. 

O !  I  do  love  thee,  meek  Simplicity ! 

For  of  thy  lays  the  lulling  simpleness 

Goes  to  my  heart,  and  soothes  each  small  distress — 

Distress  tho'  small,  yet  haply  great  to  me  ! 

'Tis  true,  on  Lady  Fortune's  gentlest  pad 

I  amble  on ;  yet  tho'  I  know  not  why, 

So  sad  I  am  !  but  should  a  friend  and  I 

Grow  cool  and  miff,  O  !  I  am  very  sad ! 

And  then  with  sonnets  and  with  sympathy 

My  dreamy  bosom's  mystic  woes  I  pall ; 

Now  of  my  false  friend  plaining  plaintively, 

Kow  raving  at  mankind  in  general : 

J3ut  whether  sad  or  fierce,  'tis  simple  all, 

All  very  simple,  meek  Simplicity. 


A  COUPLET, 

WRITTEN   IN   A  VOLUME  OP  POEMS  PRESENTED 

BY  MR.  COLERIDGE  TO  DR.  A., 

A  HIGHLY   RESPECTED    FRIEND,  THE   LOSS   OF  WHOSB 
SOCIETY   HE   DEEPLY    REGRETTED. 

To  meet,  to  know,  to  love — and  then  to  part, 
Is  the  sad  tale  of  many  a  human  heart. 


THE  RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 

IN  SEVEN  PARTS. 
1798. 

Facile  credo,  piures  ease  Naturas  invisibiles  quam  visibiles  in  rerum  universitat* 
Sed  horum  omnium  familiam  quis  nobis  enarrabit?  etgradus  et  cognationes  et  discrim- 
ilia  et  singulprum  munera  ?  Quid  agunt  ?  quae  loea  habitant  ?  Harum  rerum  notitiam 
semper  ambivit  ingenium  humaiium,  nunquani  attigit.  Juvat,  interea,  non  diffiteor, 
quandoqu3  in  animo,  tanqurm  in  Tabula,  majoris  et  melioris  nmndi  imaginem  contem- 
plari  :  ne  mens  assuefacat  hodiernse  yilje  minutiis  se  contrahat  minis,  et  tota  subsidat 
in  pusillas  cogitatioiies.  Sed  veritati  interea  invigilandum  est,  modusque  servandus, 
utcerta  ab  incertis,  diem  a  nocte,  distinguamus. 

T.  BUKKET  :  ARCH^OL.  PHIL.,  p.  68. 


IT  is  an  ancient  Mariner, 

And  he  stoppeth  one  of  three, 

'  By  thy  long  gray  beard  and  glittering  eye, 

Now  wherefore  stopp'st  thou  me  ? 

'  The  Bridegroom's  doors  are  opened  wide, 
And  I  am  next  of  kin  ; 
The  guests  are  met,  the  feast  is  set : 
May'st  hear  the  merry  din.' 

He  holds  him  with  his  skinny  hand, 

*  There  was  a  ship,'  quoth  he. 

*  Hold  off  !  unhand  me,  gray-beard  loon  ! ' 
Eftsoons  his  hand  dropt  he. 

He  holds  him  with  his  glittering  eye — 
The  Wedding-Guest  stood  still, 
And  listens  like  a  three  years'  child : 
The  Mariner  hath  his  will. 

The  Wedding-Guest  sat  on  a  stone  ; 
He  cannot  choose  but  hear ; 
And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man, 
The  bright-eyed  Mariner. 

The  ship  was  cheered,  the  harbor  cleared, 

Merrily  did  we  drop 

Below  the  kirk,  below  the  hill, 

Below  the  lighthouse  top. 


An  ancient 
Mariner  meet- 
eth  three  Gal- 
lants bidden  U 
a  wedding- 
feast,  and  de- 
taiuetii  one. 


The  Wedding 
Guest  is  spell- 
bound by  the 
eye  of  the  old 
sea-faring 
man.  and  coa 
•strained  to 
hear  his  tale, 


(Ml) 


IO2 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


The  Mariner" 
tells  how;  the  " 
Bhip  sailed- 
southward 
with  good 
wind  and  fair 
weather,  till 
it  reached  the 
Line. 


'TMie  Sun  canine  up  upon  the  left 
"          of  the  sea  ca'me  he  ! 


And  he  shone  bright,  and  on  the  right 
Went  down  into  the  sea. 

Higher  and  higher  every  day, 

Till  over  the  mast  at  noon  — 

The  Wedding-Guest  here  beat  his  breast, 

For  he  heard  the  loud  bassoon. 


The  Wedding- 
Guest  heareth 
the  bridal 
music  ;  but 
the  Manner 
continueth  Ms 
tale. 


The  ship 
drawn  by  a 
storm  toward 
the  &outh  pole. 


The  bride  hath  paced  into  the  ha\l, 
Red  as  a  rose  is  she  ; 
Nodding  their  heads  before  her  goes 
The  merry  minstrelsy. 

The  Wedding-Guest  here  beat  his  breast, 
Yet  he  cannot  choose  but  hear  ; 
And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  niaj 
The  bright-eyed  Mariner. 

And  now  the  Storm-blast  came,  and  he 
Was  tyrannous  and  strong  : 
He  struck  with  his  o'ertaking  wings, 
And  chased  us  south  along. 

With  sloping  masts  and  dipping  prow, 

As  who  pursued  with  yell  and  blow 

Still  treads  the  shadow  of  his  foe 

And  forward  bends  his  head, 

The  ship  drove  fast,  loud  roared  the  blast, 

And  southward  aye  we  fled. 

And  now  there  came  both  mist  and  snow, 
And  it  grew  wondrous  cold  : 
And  ice,  mast-high,  came  floating  by, 
As  green  as  emerald. 


The  land  of 
ice,  and  of 
fearful 

Bounds,  where 
no  living 
thin/  was  to  be 
seen 


And  through  the  drifts  the  snowy  clifts 
Did  send  a  dismal  sheen  : 
Nor  shapes  of  men  nor  beasts  we  ken — 
The  ice  was  all  between. 

The  ice  was  here,  the  ice  was  there, 

The  ice  was  all  around  : 

It  cracked  ^ind  growled,  and  roared  and  howled, 

Like  noises  in  a  s wound  I 


KfJKTE  OF  THE  ANCIEn?  ffffL^ 


103 


At  length  did  cross  an  Albatross : 
Through  the  fog  it  came  ; 
As  if  it  had  been  a  Christian  soul, 
We  hailed  it  in  God's  name. 

It  ate  the  food  it  ne'er  had  eat, 
And  round  and  round  it  flew. 
The  ice  did  split  with  a  thunder-fit ; 
The  helmsman  steered  us  through ! 

And  a  good  south  wind  sprung  up  behind  ; 

The  Albatross  did  follow, 

And  every  day,  for  food  or  play, 

Came  to  the  mariners'  hollo  I 

In  mist  or  cloud,  on  mast  or  shroud, 

It  perched  for  vespers  nine ; 

Whiles  all  the  night,  through  fog-smoke  white, 

Glimmered  the  white  Moon-shine. 

*  God  save  thee,  ancient  Mariner ! 
From  the  fiends,  that  plague  thee  thus  ! — 
Why  look'st  thou  so  ? ' — With  my  cross-bow 
I  shot  the  Albatross. 

PART   THE   SECOND. 

THE  Sun  now  rose  upon  the  right 
Out  of  the  sea  came  he, 
Still  hid  in  mist,  and  on  the  left 
Went  down  into  the  sea. 

And  the  good  south  wind  still  blew  behind, 
But  no  sweet  bird  did  follow, 
Nor  any  day,  for  food  or  play, 
Came  to  the  mariners'  hollo  ! 

And  I  had  done  an  hellish  thing, 

And  it  would  work  'em  woe  : 

For  all  averred,  I  had  killed  the  bird 

That  made  the  breeze  to  blow. 

Ah,  wretch  !  said  they,  the  bird  to  slay, 

That  made  the  breeze  to  blow  ! 

Nor  dim  nor  red,  like  God's  own  head, 

The  glorious  Sun  uprist : 

Then  all  averred,  I  had  killed  the  bird 

That  brought  the  fog  and  mist. 

'Twas  right,  said  they,  such  birds  to  Blay, 

That  bring  the  fog  and  mist. 


Till  a  great 
sea-bird, 
called  the 
Albatross, 
came  through 
the  snow-fog, 
and  was  re- 
ceived with 
jreat  joy  and 
iity. 


And  lo  !  the 
Albatross 
proveth  a  bird 
of  good  omen, 
and  followeth 
the  ship  as  it 
returned 
northward, 
through  fog 
aud  lloating 
ice. 


The  ancient 
Mariner 
inhospitably 
killeth  the 
pious  bird  of 
good  omen. 


His  ship- 
mates cry  out 
against  the 
ancient  Mari- 
ner, for  killing 
the  bird  of 
good  luck. 


But  when  the 
fog  cleared 
off,  they  jus- 
tify the  same, 
and  thus  make 
themselves 
accomplices 
in  the  crime. 


104 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


The  fair 
breeze  con- 
tinues ;  the 
ship  enters 
the  Pacific 
Ocean  and 
sails  north- 
ward; even 
*ill  it  reaches 
the  Line. 
The  ship  hath 
been  suddenly 
becalmed 


And  the  Al- 
batross begins 
to  be  avenged. 


The  fair  breeze  blew,  the  white  foain  flew, 

The  furrow  followed  free  : 

We  were  the  first  that  ever  burst 

Into  that  silent  sea. 

Down  dropt  the  breeze,  the  sails  dropt  down 
'Twas  sad  as  sad  could  be  ; 
And  we  did  speak  only  to  break 
The  silence  of  the  sea  ! 

All  in  a  hot  and  copper  sky, 
The  bloody  Sun,  at  noon, 
Right  up  above  the  mast  did  stand, 
No  bigger  than  the  Moon. 

Day  after  day,  day  after  day, 
We  stuck,  nor  breath  nor  motion  ; 
As  idle  as  a  painted  ship 
Upon  a  painted  ocean. 

Water,  water,  every  where, 
And  all  the  boards  did  shrink  ; 
Water,  water,  every  where, 
Nor  any  drop  to  drink. 

The  very  deep  did  rot :  O  Christ ! 
That  ever  this  should  be  ! 
Yea,  slimy  things  did  crawl  with  legs 
Upon  the  slimy  sea. 

About,  about,  in  reel  and  rout 
The  death  Lres  danced  at  night ; 
The  waier,  like  a  witch's  oils, 
Burnt  green,  and  blue,  and  white. 


And  some  in  dreams  assured  were 
Of  the  spirit  that  plagued  us  so  : 
Nine  fathom  deep  he  had  followed  us 
From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow. 


A  spirit  had 
followed 
them  ;  one  of 
the  invisible 
nhabitants  of 
this  planet, 
neither  depar- 
ted souls  nor  angels  ;  concerning  whom  the  learned  Jew,  Josephus,  and  the  Ptetonie 
Constantinopolitan,  Michael  Psellus,  may  be  consulted.    They  are  very  numerous,  and 
there  is  no  climate  or  elenent  without  one  or  more. 


And  every  tongue,  through  utter  drought, 
Was  withered  at  the  root ; 
We  could  not  speak,  no  more  than  if 
We  had  been  choked  with  soot. 


THE  RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 


Ah  !  well-a-day  !  what  evil  looks 
Had  I  from  old  and  young  ! 
Instead  of  the  cross,  the  Albatross 
About  ray  neck  was  hung. 


PART   THE  THIRD. 

THERE  passed  a  weary  tLne.     Each  throat 

Was  parched,  and  glazed  each  eye. 

A  weary  time  !  a  weary  time  ! 

How  glazed  each  weary  eye, 

When  looking  westward  I  beheld 

A  something  in  the  sky. 

At  first  it  seemed  a  little  speck, 
And  then  it  seemed  a  mist : 
It  moved  and  moved,  and  took  at  last 
A  certain  shape,  I  wist. 

A  speck,  a  mist,  a  shape,  I  wist ! 
And  still  it  neared  and  neared  : 
As  if  it  dodged  a  water-sprite, 
It  plunged  and  tacked  and  veered. 

With  throats  unslaked,  with  black  lips  baked, 

We  could  not  laugh  nor  wail ; 

Through  utter  doubt  all  dumb  we  stood  f 

I  bit  my  arm,  I  sucked  the  blood, 

And  cried,  A  sail !  a  sail ! 

With  throats  unslaked,  with  black  lips  baked, 
Agape  they  heard  me  call : 
Gramercy  !  they  for  joy  did  grin, 
And  all  at  once  their  breath  drew  in, 
As  they  were  drinking  all. 

See  !   see !  (I  cried)  she  tacks  no  more  ! 
Hither  to  work  us  weal ; 
Without  a  breeze,  without  a  tide, 
She  steadies  with  upright  keel ! 

The  western  wave  was  all  aflame, 
The  day  was  well-riigh  done  ! 
Almost  upon  the  western  wave 
Rested  the  broad  bright  Sun  ; 
When  that  strange  ship  drove  suddenly 
Betwixt  us  and  the  Sun. 


The  ship- 
mates in  their 
sore  distress 
would  fain 
throw  the 
whole  guilt  GTI 
the  ancient 
Mariner  :  irt 
sign  whereof 
they  hang  the 
dead  sea-bird 
round  his 
neck. 


The  ancient 
Mariner  he- 
holdeth  a  sign 
in  the  element 
afar  off. 


At  its  neuter 
approach,  it 
seemeth  iim 
to  be  a  shvp  ; 
and  at  a  dear 
C:.ii3om  he 
"rceth  his 
speech  from 
the  bonds  of 
thirst. 

A  flash  of  joy. 


And  horror 
follows.    For 
can  it  be  a 
ship  that 
comes  onward 
without  w,j)d 
or  tide  ? 


1 06 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


It  seemeth 
him  Lat  >e 


A.nd  its  ribs 
Are  seen  as 
bars  on  the 
face  of  the  set> 
ting  Sun. 
The  spectre- 
woman  and  her 
de£.th-mate, 
and  no  other  on 
board  the  skel- 
eton-ship. 
Like  vessel, 
like  crew! 


DEATH  and 
Life-in- 
Death  have 
diced  for  the 
ship's  crew, 
and  she  (the 
latter)  wmneth 
the  ancient 
Mariner. 
No  twilight 
within  the 
courts  of  the 
sun. 

At  the  rising 
of  the  Moon, 


One  after 
Hiiother, 


His  shipmates 
drop  down 
dead; 


And  straight  the  Sun  was  flecked  with  bars, 
(Heaven's  Mother  send  us  grace  !) 
As  if  through  a  dungeon-grate  he  peered, 
With  broad  and  burning  face. 

Alas  !  (thought  I,  and  my  heart  beat  loud,) 
How  fast  she  nears  and  nears  ! 
Are  those  her  sails  that  glance  in  the  Sun, 
Like  restless  gossameres  ! 

Are  those  her  ribs  through  which  the  Sun 
Did  peer,  as  through  a  grate  ? 
And  is  that  Woman  all  her  crew  ? 
Is  that  a  Death  ?  and  are  there  two  ? 
Is  Death  that  Woman's  mate  ? 

Her  lips  were  red,  her  looks  were  free, 
Her  locks  were  yellow  as  gold  : 
Her  skin  was  as  white  as  leprosy, 
The  Night-Mare  Life-in-Death  was  she, 
Who  thicks  man's  blood  with  cold. 

The  naked  hulk  alongside  came, 
Arid  the  twain  were  casting  dice  ; 
'  The  game  is  done  !     I've,  I've  won  1  * 
Quoth  she,  and  whistles  thrice. 

The  Sun's  rim  dips  ;  the  stars  rush  out : 
At  one  stride  comes  the  dark  ; 
With  far- heard  whisper,  o'er  the  sea, 
Off  shot  the  spectre-bark. 

We  listened  and  looked  sideways  up  ! 

Fear  at  my  heart,  as  at  a  cup, 

My  life-blood  seemed  to  sip  ! 

The  stars  were  dim,  and  thick  the  night, 

The  steersman's  face  by  his  lamp  gleamed  white 

From  the  sails  the  dew  did  drip — 

Till  clombe  above  the  eastern  bar 

The  horned  Moon,  with  one  bright  star 

Within  the  nether  tip. 

One  after  one,  by  the  star-dogged  Moon, 
Too  quick  for  groan  or  sigh, 
Each  turned  his  face  with  a  ghastly  pang, 
And  cursed  me  with  his  eye. 

Four  times  fifty  living  men 
(And  I  heard  nor  sigh  nor  groan). 


THE  RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 


107 


With  heavy  thump,  a  lifeless  lump, 
They  dropped  down  one  by  one. 

The  souls  did  from  their  bodies  fly, — 
They  fled  to  bliss  or  woe  ! 
And  every  soul,  it  passed  ine  by, 
Like  the  whizz  of  my  cross-bow  ! 


But  Life-in- 
Death  be- 
gins her  work 
on  the  ancient 
Mariner. 


PART   THE   FOURTH. 


'  I  FEAR  thee,  ancient  Mariner  ! 

I  fear  thy  skinny  hand  ! 

Arid  thou  art  long,  and  lank,  and  brown, 

As  is  the  ribbed  sea-sand.* 

'  I  fear  thee,  and  thy  glittering  eye, 
And  thy  skinny  hand,  so  brown.'— 
Fear  not,  fear  not,  thou  Wedding-Guest ! 
This  body  dropt  not  down. 

Alone,  alone,  all, .all  alone, 
Alone  on  a  wide  wide  sea  ! 
And  never  a  saint  took  pity  on 
My  soul  in  agony. 

The  many  men,  so  beautiful ! 

And  they  all  dead  did  lie ; 

And  a  thousand  thousand  slimy  things 


The  Wedding- 
Guest  feareth 
that  a  spirit  is 
talking  to  him ; 


But  the  an- 
cient Mariner 
assureth  him 
of  his  bodily 
life,  and  pro- 
ceedeth  to  re- 
late his  horri- 
ble penance. 


He  despiseth 
the  creatures 
of  the  calm, 


I  looked  upon  the  rotting  sea, 
And  drew  my  eyes  away  ; 
I  looked  upon  the  rotting  deck, 
And  there  the  dead  men  lay. 

I  looked  to  Heaven,  and  tried  to  pray 
But  or  ever  a  prayer  had  gusht, 
A  wicked  whisper  came,  and  mp,de 
My  heart  as  dry  as  dust. 

I  closed  my  lids,  and  kept  them  close, 

And  the  balls  like  pulses  beat ; 

For  the  sky  and  the  sea,  and  the  sea  and  the  sky, 

Lay  like  a  load  on  my  weary  eye, 

And  tli-e  dead  were  at  my  feet. 


And  envieth 
that  they 
should  live, 
and  so  many 
lie  dead. 


*  For  the  two  last  lines  of  this  stanza,  T  am  indebted  to  Mr. 
Words  worth.  Tt  was  on  a  delightful  walk  from  Nether  Stowey  to 
Dulverton,  with  him  and  his  sister,  in  the  Autumn  of  1797,  that  this 
Pucm  was  planned,  a^id  in  part  composed. 


io8 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


But  the  curse 
liveth  for  him 
in  the  eye  of 
the  dead  men. 


The  cold  sweat  melted  from  their  limbs, 
Nor  rot  nor  reek  did  they  : 
The  look  with  which  they  looked  on  me 
Had  never  passed  away. 


An  orphan's  curse  would  drag  to  Hell 

A  spirit  from  on  high  ; 

But  oh !  more  horrible  than  that 

Is  a  curse  in  a  dead  man's  eye  ! 

Seven  days,  seven  nights,  I  saw  that  curse, 

And  yet  I  could  not  die. 

in  his  loneli-  The  moving  Moon  went  up  the  sky, 

ness  and  nxed-  And  no  where  did  abide  : 

lu? towards1"11"  Softly  she  was  going  up, 

the  journeying  And  a  star  or  two  beside — 

Moon,  and  the 

stars  that  still 

sojourn,  yet  still  move  onward  ;  and  everywhere  the  blue  sky  belongs  to  them,  and  ia 

their  appointed  i  <;st,  and  their  native  country  and  their  own  natural  homes,  which  thej 

enter  unannounc«*d,  as  lords  that  are  certainly  expected  aud  yet  there  is  a  silent,  joj 

at  their  arrival. 

Her  beams  bemocked  the  sultry  main, 
Like  April  hoar-frost  spread  ; 
But  where  the  ship's  huge  shadow  lay, 
The  charmed  water  burnt  alway 
A  still  and  awful  red. 


By  the  light  of 
the  Moon  he 
beholdeth 
God's  crea- 
tures of  the 
great  calm. 


Beyond  the  shadow  of  the  ship, 

I  watched  the  water-snakes  : 

They  moved  in  tracks  of  shining  white, 

And  when  they  reared,  the  elfish  light 

Fell  off  in  hoary  flakes. 


Within  the  shadow  of  the  ship 

I  watched  their  rich  attire : 

Blue,  glossy  green,  and  velvet  black, 

They  coiled  and  swam  ;  and  every  track 

Was  a  flash  of  golden  fire. 


Their  beauty 
and  their 
happiness. 


He  blesseth 
them  in  hia 
heart. 


O  happy  living  things !  no  tongue 

Their  beauty  might  declare  : 

A  spring  of  love  gushed  from  my  heart, 

Arid  I  blessed  them  unaware  1 

Sure  my  kind  saint  took  pity  on  ine, 

And  I  blessed  them  unaware. 


THE  RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 


log 


The  self  same  moment  I  could  pray ; 
And  from  my  neck  so  free 
The  Albatross  fell  off,  and  sunk 
Like  lead  into  the  sea. 


The  spell  be- 
gins to  break. 


PART   THE   FIFTH. 

OH  sleep !  it  is  a  gentle  thing, 
Beloved  from  pole  to  pole  ! 
To  Mary  Queen  the  praise  be  given ! 
She  sent  the  gentle  sleep  from  Heaven, 
That  slid  into  my  soul. 


The  silly  buckets  on  the  deck, 

That  had  so  long  remained, 

I  dreamt  that  they  were  filled  with  dew ; 

And  when  I  woke,  it  rained. 

My  lips  were  wet,  my  throat  was  cold, 
My  garments  all  were  dank  ; 
Sure  I  had  drunken  in  my  dreams, 
And  still  my  body  drank. 

I  moved,  and  could  not  feel  my  limbs  : 
I  was  so  light — almost 
I  thought  that  I  had  died  in  sleep, 
And  was  a  blessed  ghost. 

And  soon  I  heard  a  roaring  wind  : 
It  did  not  come  anear; 
But  with  its  sound  it  shook  the  sails, 
That  were  so  thin  and  sere. 

The  upper  air  burst  into  life ! 
And  a  hundred  fire-flags  sheen, 
To  and  fro  they  were  hurried  about ! 
And  to  and  fro,  and  in  and  out, 
The  wan  stars  danced  between. 

And  the  coming  wind  did  roar  more  lou<J, 
And  the  sails  did  sigh  like  sedge ; 
And  the  rain  poured  down  from  one  black  cloud 
The  Moon  was  at  its  edge. 

•fhe  thick  black  cloud  was  cleft,  and  still 
The  Moon  was  at  its  side  : 


By  grace  of 
the  holy 
Mother,  the 
ancient  Mari- 
ner is  refreshed 
with  rain. 


He  heareth 
sounds,  and 
•seeth  strange 
Bights  and 
commotions  ir, 
the  sky  and 
the  element. 


110 


COLERIDGE  JS  POEMS. 


The  bodies  of 
the  ship's 
crew  are  in- 
spired, and 
the  ship  moves 
on. 


But  not  by 

the  souls  of 
the  men,  nor 
by  daemons  of 
earth  or  mid- 
dle air,  but  by 
a  blessed  troop 
of  »ngelic 
sp     ts,  sent 
do     i  by  the 
iiw    -Ation  of 
the     lardian 


Like  waters  shot  from  some  high  crag, 
The  lightning  fell  with  never  a  jag, 
A  river  steep  and  wide. 

The  loud  wind  never  reached  the  ship, 
Yet  now  the  ship  moved  on  ! 
Beneath  the  lightning  and  the  Moon 
The  dead  men  gave  a  groan. 

They  groaned,  they  stirred,  they  all  uprose. 
Nor  spake,  nor  moved  their  eyes  ; 
It  had  been  strange,  even  in  a  dream, 
To  have  seen  those  dead  men  rise. 

The  helmsman  steered,  the  ship  moved  on  ; 

Yet  never  a  breeze  up  blew  ; 

The  mariners  all  'gan  work  the  ropes, 

"Where  they  were  wont  to  do  : 

They  raised  their  limbs  like  lifeless  tools — 

We  were  a  ghastly  crew. 

The  body  of  my  brother's  son 
Stood  by  me,  knee  to  knee  : 
The  body  and  I  pulled  at  one  rope, 
But  he  said  naught  to  me. 

'  I  fear  thee,  ancient  Mariner  ! ' 
Be  calm,  thou  Wedding-Guest ! 
'Twas  not  those  souls  that  fled  in  pain, 
Which  to  their  corses  came  again, 
But  a  troop  of  spirits  blest : 

For  when  it  dawned — they  dropped  their  arms, 
And  clustered  round  the  mast ; 
Sweet  sounds  rose  slowly  through  their  mouths 
And  from  their  bodies  passed. 

Around,  around,  flew  each  sweet  sound, 
Then  darted  to  the  Sun  ; 
Slowly  the  sounds  came  back  again, 
Now  mixed,  now  one  by  one. 

Sometimes  a-dropping  from  the  sky 
I  heard  the  sky-lark  sing  \ 
Sometimes  all  little  birds  that  are, 
How  they  seemed  to  fill  the  sea  and  air 
With  their  sweet  jargoning ! 


THE  RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 


Ill 


And  now  'twas  like  all  instruments, 
Now  like  a  lonely  flute  ; 
And  now  it  is  an  angel's  song, 
That  makes  the  Heavens  be  mute. 

It  ceased  ;  yet  still  the  sails  made  on 

A  pleasant  noise  till  noon, 

A  noise  like  of  a  hidden  brook 

In  the  leafy  month  of  June, 

That  to  the  sleeping  woods  all  night 

Singeth  a  quiet  tune. 

Till  noon  we  quietly  sailed  on, 
Yet  never  a  breeze  did  breathe : 
Slowly  and  smoothly  went  the  ship, 
Moved  onward  from  beneath. 

Under  the  keel  nine  fathom  deep, 
From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow, 
The  spirit  slid  :  and  it  was  he 
That  made  the  ship  to  go. 
The  sails  at  noon  left  off  their  tune 
And  the  ship  stood  still  also. 

The  Sun,  right  up  above  the  mast, 
Had  fixed  her  to  the  ocean : 
But  in  a  minute  she  'gan  stir, 
With  a  short  uneasy  motion — 
Backwards  and  forwards  half  her  length. 
With  a  short  uneasy  motion. 

Then  like  a  pawing  horse  let  go, 
She  made  a  sudden  bound  ; 
It  flung  the  blood  into  my  head, 
And  I  fell  down  in  a  swound. 

How  long  in  that  same  fit  I  lay, 
I  have  not  to  declare  ; 
But  ere  my  living  life  returned, 
I  heard  and  in  my  soul  discerned 

Two  voices  in  the  air. 

'  Is  it  he  ?  '  quoth  one,  '  Is  this  the  man  ? 

By  him  who  died  on  cross, 

With  his  cruel  bow  he  laid  full  low, 

The  harmless  Albatross. 

'  The  spirit  who  bideth  by  himself 
In  the  land  of  mist  and  snow, 
He  loved  the  bird  that  loved  the  man 
Who  shot  him  with  his  bow.' 


The  lonesome 
spirit  from  the 
south  pole 
carries  on  the 
ship  as  far  as 
the  Line,  in 
obedience  to 
the  angelic 
troop,  but 
still  requireth 
vengeance. 


The  Polar 

Spirit's  fel- 
low-daemons, 
the  invisible 
inhabitants  of 
the  element, 
take  part  in 
his  wrong  ; 
and  two  of 
them  relate, 
one  to  the 
other,  that 
penance  long 
and  heavy  for 
the  ancient 
Mariner  hath 
been  accorded 
to  the  Polar 
Spirit,  who 
returneth 
southward. 


£12 


VOLER1DGE*S  POEMS, 


The  other  was  a  softer  voice, 

As  soft  as  honey-dew  : 

Quoth  he,  '  The  man  hath  penance  done, 

And  penaii'j3  more  will  do/ 


PART  THE  SIXTH. 
FIRST  VOICE. 

BUT  tell  me,  tell  me  !  speak  again, 
Thy  soft  response  renewing — 
What  makes  that  ship  drive  on  so  fast  ? 
What  is  the  Ocean  doing  ? 

SECOND  VOICE. 

Still  as  a  slave  before  his  lord, 
The  Ocean  hath  no  blast ; 
His  great  bright  eye  most  silently 
Up  to  the  Moon  is  cast — 

If  he  may  know  which  way  to  go  ; 
For  she  guides  him  smooth  or  grim. 
See,  brother,  see  !  how  graciously 
She  looketh  down  on  him. 


The  Mariner 
hAth  been  cast 
into  a  trance  ; 
for  tin-  angelic 
power  causeth 
Hie  vessel  to 
drive  noith- 
wurd  faster 

lian  human 

ife  could, 
<ndure. 


The  supernat- 
ural motion  is 
retarded  ;  the 
Mariner 
awakes,  and 
his  penance 
begins  anew. 


FIRST   VOICE. 

But  why  drives  on  that  ship  so  fast, 
Without  or  wave  or  wind  ? 


SECOND   VOICE. 

The  air  is  cut  away  before, 
And  closes  from  behind. 

Fly,  brother,  fly  1  more  high,  more  high  f 
Or  we  shall  be  belated  : 
For  slow  and  slow  that  ship  will  go, 
When  the  Mariner's  trance  is  abated. 

I  woke,  and  we  were  sailing  on 

As  in  a  gentle  weather  : 

'Twas  night,  calm  night,  the  Moon  was  higfc. 

The  dead  men  stood  together. 


THE  RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER.  I  13 


All  stood  together  on  the  deck, 
For  a  charnel-dungeon  fitter  : 
All  fixed  on  me  their  stony  eye 
That  in  the  Moon  did  glitter. 

The  pang,  the  curse,  with  which  they  died, 

Had  never  passed  away  : 

I  could  not  draw  niy  eyes  from  theirs, 

Nor  turn  them  up  to  pray. 

And  now  this  spell  was  snapt:  once  more  Tha  curse  te 

I  viewed  the  ocean  green,  Jggjy  expi' 

And  looked  far  for  eh,  yet  little  saw 

Of  what  had  else  been  seen — 

Like  one,  that  on  a  lonesome  road 
Doth  walk  in  fear  and  dread, 
And  having  once  turned  round  walks  on 
And  turns  no  more  his  head  ; 
Because  he  knows,  a  frightful  fiend 
Doth  close  behind  him  tread. 

But  soon  there  breathed  a  wind  on  me 
Nor  sound  nor  motion  made  : 
Its  path  was  not  upon  the  sea, 
In  ripple  or  in  shade. 

It  raised  my  hair,  it  fanned  my  cheek 
Like  a  meadow-gale  of  spring — 
It  mingled  strangely  with  my  fears, 
Yet  it  felt  like  a  welcoming. 

Swiftly,  swiftly  flew  the  ship, 
Yet  she  sailed  softly  ioo  : 
Sweetly,  sweetly  blew  the  breeze- 
On  me  alone  it  blew. 

Oh  !  dream  of  joy  !  is  this  indeed  And  the  aP~ 
The  light-house  top  I  see  ? 

Is  this  the  hill  ?  is  this  the  kirk  ?  native 

Is  this  mine  own  countree  ?  country. 

We  drifted  o'er  the  harbor-bar, 
And  I  with  sobs  did  pray — 
O  let  me  be  awake,  my  God ! 
Or  let  me  sleep  alway. 

The  harbor-bay  was  clear  as  glass, 
So  smoothly  it  was  strewn  I 
And  on  the  bay  the  moonlight  lay 
And  the  shadow  of  the  moon. 

8 


u'4 


COLERIDGE 'S  POEMS. 


The  angelu- 
gpirits  leave 
the  dead 
bodies, 

And  appeai- 
in  their  own 
forms  of  light. 


The  rock  shone  bright,  the  kirk  no  less, 
That  stands  above  the  rock  : 
The  moonlight  steeped  in  silentness 
The  steady  weathercock. 

And  the  bay  was  white  with  silent  light, 
Till  rising  from  the  same, 
Full  many  shapes,  that  shadows  were, 
In  crimson  colors  came. 

A  little  distance  from  the  prow 
Those  crimson  shadows  were  : 
I  turned  my  eyes  upon  the  deck — 
Oh,  Christ !  what  saw  I  there  ! 

Each  corse  lay  flat,  lifeless  and  flat, 
And,  by  the  holy  rood  ! 
A  man  all  light,  a  seraph-man. 
On  every  corse  there  stood. 

This  seraph-band,  each  waved  his  hand : 
It  was  a  heavenly  sight ! 
They  stood  as  signals  to  the  land, 
Each  one  a  lovely  light : 

This  seraph-band,  each  waved  his  hand, 
No  voice  did  they  impart — 
No  voice  ;  but  oh  !  the  silence  sank 
Like  music  on  my  heart. 

But  soon  I  heard  the  dash  of  oar?, 
I  heard  the  Pilot's  cheer  ; 
My  head  was  turned  perforce  away, 
And  I  saw  a  boat  appear. 

The  Pilot,  and  the  Pilot's  boy, 
I  heard  them  coming  fast : 
Dear  Lord  in  Heaven  !  it  was  a  joy 
The  dead  men  could  not  blast. 


I  saw  a  third — I  heard  his  voice: 

It  is  the  Hermit  good  ! 

He  singeth  loud  his  godly  hymns 

That  he  makos  in  the  wood. 

He'll  shrive  my  soul,  he'll  wash  away 

The  Albatross's  blood. 


THE  RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER.  115 

PART   THE   SEVENTH. 

THI3  Hermit  good  lives  in  that  wood  The  Hermit  of 

Which  slopes  down  to  the  sea.  the  wood. 

Row  loudly  his  sweet  voice  he  rears  ! 
He  loves  to  talk  with  marineres 
That  come  from  a  far  ^ountree. 

He  kneels  at  morn,  and  noon,  and  eve- 
He  hath  a  cushion  plump  : 
It  is  the  moss  that  wholly  hides 
The  rotted  old  oak-stump. 

The  skiff -boat  neared  :  I  heard  them  talk, 
'  Why  this  is  strange,  I  trow  ! 
Y/here  are  those  lights  so  many  and  fair, 
That  signal  made  but  now  ?  * 

'  Strange,  by  my  faith  !  '  the  Hermit  said —  Approaches 

'  And  they  answered  not  our  cheer !  wonder!  Wi* 

The  planks  looked  warped  !  and  see  those  sails 
How  thin  they  are  and  sere  ! 
I  never  saw  aught  like  to  them, 
Unless  perchance  it  were 

Brown  skeletons  of  leaves  that  lag 
My  forest-brook  along  ; 
When  the  ivy-tod  is  heavy  with  snow, 
And  the  owlet  whoops  to  che  wolf  below 
That  eats  the  she- wolf's  young.' 

'  Dear  Lord  !  it  hath  a  fiendish  look 
(The  Pilot  made  reply) 
I  am  a-feared  '  — '  Push  en,  push  on  I ' 
Said  the  hermit  cheerily. 

The  boat  came  closer  to  the  ship, 
But  I  nor  spake  nor  stirred  ; 
The  boat  came  close  beneath  the  ship, 
And  straight  a  sound  was  heard. 

Under  the  water  it  rumbled  on,  The  ship  sua- 

Still  louder  arid  more  dread  :  denly  sinketb 

It  reached  the  ship,  it  split  the  bay  ; 
The  ship  went  down  like  lead. 


ir6 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


The  ancient 
Mariner  is 
saved  in  the 
Pilot's  boat. 


The  ancient 
Mariner 
earnestly  en- 
vreateth  the 
Hermit  to 
shrieve  him; 
and  the  pen 
ance  of  life 
falls  on  him. 


And  ever  and 
anon  through- 
out his  future 
life  an  agony 
constraineth 
him  to  travel 
from  land  to 
laud. 


Stunned  by  that  loud  and  dreadful  sound, 

Which  sky  and  ocean  smote, 

Like  one  that  hath  been  se  /en  days  drowned 

My  body  lay  afloat ; 

But  swift  as  dreams,  myself  I  found 

Within  the  Pilot's  boat. 

Upon  the  whirl,  where  sank  the  ship, 
The  boat  spun  round  and  round  ; 
And  all  was  still,  save  that  the  hill 
Was  telling  of  the  sound. 

I  moved  my  lips — the  Pilot  shrieked 
And  fell  down  in  a  fit ; 
The  holy  Hermit  raised  his  eyes 
And  prayed  where  he  did  sit. 

I  took  the  oars  :  the  Pilot's  boy, 

Who  now  doth  crazy  go, 

Laughed  loud  and  long,  and  all  the  while 

His  eyes  went  to  and  fro. 

'  Ha  !  ha  ! '  quoth  he,  *  full  plain  I  see, 

The  Devil  knows  how  to  row.' 

And  now,  all  in  my  own  countree, 

I  stood  on  the  firm  land  ! 

The  Hermit  stepped  forth  from  the  boat, 

And  scarcely  he  could  stand. 

'O  shrieve  me,  shrieve  me,  holy  man  1 ' 
The  Hermit  crossed  his  brow. 
'  Say  quick,'  quoth  he,  '  I  bid  thee  say — 
What  manner  of  man  art  ihou  ?  ' 

Forthwith  this  frame  of  mine  was  wrenched 

With  a  woeful  agony, 

Which  forced  me  to  begin  my  tale ; 

And  then  it  left  me  free. 

Since  then,  at  an  uncertain  hour, 
That  agony  returns ; 
And  till  my  ghastly  tale  is  told, 
This  heart  within  me  burns, 

I  pass,  like  night,  from  land  to  land  ; 
I  have  strange  power  of  speech  ; 
That  moment  that  his  face  I  see, 
I  know  the  man  that  must  hear  m«: 
To  hi  ID  my  tale  I  teach. 


THE  RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 


And  to  teach, 
by  bis  own 
example, 
love  and 
reverence  to 
aA  things  that 
God  made  and 
ioveth. 


What  loud  uproar  bursts  from  that  do«r ! 
The  wedding-guests  are  there  : 
But  in  the  garden-bower  the  bride 
And  bride-maids  singing  are  ; 
And  hark  the  little  vesper  bell, 
Which  biddeth  me  to  prayer  I 

O  Wedding-Guest !  this  soul  hath  been 
Alone  on  a  wide  wide  sea  : 
So  lonely  'twas,  that  God  himself 
Scarce  seemed  there  to  be. 

O  sweeter  than  the  marriage-feas* 
'Tis  sweeter  far  to  me, 
To  walk  together  to  the  kirk 
With  a  goodly  company  ! — 

To  walk  together  to  the  kirk, 

And  all  together  pray, 

While  each  to  his  great  Father  bends, 

Old  men,  and  babes,  arid  loving  friends, 

And  youths  and  maidens  gay  ! 

Farewell,  farewell !  but  this  I  tell 
To  thee,  thou  Wedding-Guest ! 
He  prayeth  well,  who  Ioveth  well 
Both  man  and  bird  and  beast. 

He  prayeth  best,  who  Ioveth  best 
All  things  both  great  and  small ; 
For  the  dear  God  who  Ioveth  us, 
He  made  and  Ioveth  all. 

The  Mariner,  whose  eye  is  bright, 
Whose  beard  with  age  is  hoar, 
Is  gone  :  and  now  the  Wedding-Guest 
Turned  from  the  bridegroom's  door. 

He  went  like  one  that  hath  been  stunned. 
And  is  of  sense  forlorn  : 
A  sadder  and  a  wiser  man, 
He  rose  the  morrow  morn. 


CHE1STABEL 


PREFACE.* 

THE  first  part  of  the  following  poem  was  written  in  the  year  one  thousand  seven 
hundred  and  ninety-seven,  at  Stowey,  in  the  county  of  Somerset.  The  second  part, 
after  my  return  from  Germany,  in  the  year  one  thousand  eight  hundred,  at  Keswick^ 
Cumberland.  Since  the  latter  date,  my  poetic  powers  have  been,  till  very  lately,  in  ;i 
state  of  suspended  animation.  But  as,  in  my  very  first  conception  of  the  tale',  1  hud 
the  whole  present  to  my  mind,  with  the  wholeness  no  less  than  with  the  loveliness,  of 
a  vision  ;  I  trust  that  I  shall  yet  be  able  to  embody  in  verse  the  three  parts  yet  to 
come. 

It  is  probable,  that  if  the  poem  had  been  finished  at  either  of  the  former  periods,  or 
if  even  the  first  and  second  part  had  been  finished  in  the  year  1800,  the  impression  of 
its  originality  would  have  been  much  greater  than  I  dare  at  present  expect.  But  for 
this,  I  have  only  my  own  indolence  to  blame.  The  dates  are  mentioned  for  the  exclu- 
sive purpose  of  precluding  charges  of  plagiarism  or  servile  imitation  from  myself.  For 
there  is  among  us  a  set  of  critics,  who  seem  to  hold  that  every  possible  thought  and 
image  is  traditional  ;  who  have  no  notion  that  there  are  such  things  as  fountains  in 
the  world,  small  as  well  as  great  ;  and  who  would,  therefore,  charitably  derive  every 
rill  they  behold  flowing,  for  a  perforation  made  in  some  other  man's  tank.  I  am  con- 
fident, however,  that  as  far  as  the  present  poem  is  concerned,  the  celebrated  poets 
whose  writings  I  might  be  suspected  of  having  imitated,  either  in  particular  passages, 
or  in  the  tone  and  the  spirit  of  the  whole,  would  be  among  the  first  to  vindicate  me  from 
the  charge,  and  who,  on  any  striking  coincidence,  would  permit  me  to  address  them  in 
this  doggerel  version  of  two  monkish  Latin  hexameters  • 

'Tis  mine  and  it  is  likewise  yours, 
But  an  if  this  will  "ot  do, 
Let  it  be  mine,  good  friend  !  forl 
Am  the  poorer  of  the  two. 

I  have  only  to  add,  that  the  metre  of  the  Christ abel  is  not,  properly  speaking,  irreg- 
ular, though  it  may  seem  so  fiom  its  being  founded  on  a  new  principle  :  namely,  that 
of  counting  in  each  line  the  accents,  not  the  syllables.  Though  the  latter  may  vary 
from  seven  to  twelve,  yet  in  each  line  the  accents  will  be  found  to  be  only  four: 
Nevertheless,  this  occasional  variation  in  number  of  syllables  is  not  introduced  wan- 
tonly, or  for  the  mere  ends  of  convenience,  but  in  correspondence  with  some  transition 
in  the  nature  of  the  imagery  or  passion. 

PART   THH    FIRST. 


'Tis  the  middle  of  the  night  by 

the  castle  clock, 
And   the  owls   have   awakened 

the  crowing  cock ! 

Tu-whit ! Tu— whoo! 

And   hark,  again!  the  crowing 

C3Ck, 

Uow  drowsily  it  crew. 


Sir  Leoline,  the  Baron  rich, 
Hath  a  toothless  mastiff,  which 
From  her  kennel   beneath   the 

rock 

Maketh  answer  to  the  clock, 
Four     for     the     quarters,     and 

twelve  for  the  hour  ; 
Ever    and    aye,    by  shine    and 

shower, 


*  To  the  edition  of  1816. 
£118) 


CHRISTABEL. 


Iiy 


Sixteen  short  howls,   not   over 

loud  : 
Some   say,   she  sees    my  lady's 

shroud. 

Is  the  night  chilly  and  dark  ? 
The  night  is  chilly,  but  not  dark. 
The  thin  gray  cloud  is  spread  on 

high, 

It  covers  but  not  hides  the  sky. 
The  moon  is  behind,  and  at  the 

full ; 
And   yet  she   looks  both  small 

and  dull. 
The  night  is  chill,  the  cloud  is 

gray: 
'Tis  a  month  before  the  month 

of  May, 
And  the  spring  conies  slowly  up 

this  way. 

The  lovely  lady,  Christabel, 
Yhom  her  father  loves  so  well, 
What  makes  her  in  the  wood  so 

late, 

A  furlong  from  the  castle  gate  ? 
She  had  dreams  all  yesternight 
Of  her  own  betrothed  knight ; 
And  she  in  the  midnight  wood 

will  pray 
For  the  weal  of  her  lover  that's 

far  away. 

She    stole    along,    she    nothing 

spoke, 
The  sighs  she  heaved  were  soft 

and  low. 
And  naught  was  green  upon  the 

oak, 

But  moss  and  rarest  mistletoe  : 
She  kneels  beneath  the  huge  oak 

tree, 
And  in  silence  prayeth  she. 

The  lady  sprang  up  suddenly, 
The  lovely  lady,  Christabel  ! 
It  moaned  as  near,  as  near  can 
be, 


But  what  it  is,  she  cannot  tell. — 
On  the  other  side  it  seems  to  be, 
Of  the  huge,  broad- breasted,  old 
oak  tree. 

The  night  is  chill ;    the  forest 

bare; 
Is  it  the    wind    that    moaneth 

bleak  ? 
There  is  not  wind  enough  in  the 

air 

To  move  away  the  ringlet  curl 
From  the  lovely  lady's  cheek — 
There  is   not  wind    enough  to 

twirl 
The  one  red  leaf,  the  last  of  its 

clan, 
That  dances  as  often  as  dance  it 

can, 
Hanging  so  light,  arid  hanging 

so  high, 
On  the  topmost  twig  that  looks 

up  at  the  sky. 

Hush,    beating  heart  of  Chris- 
tabel ! 

Jesu.  Maria,  shield  her  well  1 

She  folded  her  arms  beneath  her 
cloak, 

And  stole  to  the  other  side  of  the 

oak. 
What  sees  she  there  ? 

There  she  sees  a  damsel  bright, 
Brest  in  a  silken  robe  of  white, 
That  shadowy  in  the  moonlight 

shone : 
The  neck  that  made  that  white 

robe  wan, 
Her  stately  neck,  and  arms  were 

bare ; 
Her  blue-veined  feet  unsandaled 

were  ; 
And  wildly  glittered  here   an  1 

there 
The  gems  entangled  in  her  hair 


I2O 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


I  guess,  'twas  frightful  there  to 

see — 

A  lady  so  richly  clad  as  she — 
Beautiful  exceedingly  1 

Mary,  mother,  save  me  now  ! 
(Said  Ghristabel),  And  who  art 

thou  ? 
The  lady  strange   made   answer 

meet, 
And  her   voice   was   faint    and 

sweet  : — 

Have  pity  on  my  sore  distress, 
I  scarce  can  speak  for  weariness. 
Stretch  forth  thy  hand,  and  have 

no  fear, 
Said     Christabel,    How    earnest 

thou  here  ? 
And  the  lady,  whose  voice  was 

faint  and  sweet, 
Did    thus    pursue    her    answer 

meet : — 

My  sire  is  of  a  noble  line, 
And  my  name  is  Gferaldine  : 
Five  warriors  seized   me  yester- 

inorn, 

Me,  even  me,  a  maid  forlorn  : 
Tiiey  choked  my  cries  with  force 

arid  fright, 

And  tied  me  on  a  palfrey  white. 
The  palfrey  was  as  fleet  as  wind, 
Arid  they  rode  furiously  behind, 
They  spurred  amain,  their  steeds 

were  white ; 
And  once  we  crossed  the  shade 

of  night. 
4s  sure  as  Heaven  shall  rescue 

me, 
I  have   no  thought  what  men 

they  be ; 

Nor  do  I  know  how  long  it  is 
(For  I  have  lain  entranced  I  wis) 
Since  one,  the  tallest  of  the  five, 
Took    me    from     the     palfrey's 

back, 
A  weary  woman,  scarce  alive. 


Some  muttered   words   his  com- 
rades spoke : 
He   placed    me  underneath   this 

oak, 
He  swore  they  would  return  with 

haste  ; 
Whither    they    went  I    can  not 

tell— 
I  thought  I  heard,  some  minutes 

past, 

Sounds  as  of  a  castle  bell, 
Stretch   forth    thy  hand   (thus 

ended  she), 
And  help  a  wretched  maid   to 

flee. 


Then  Christabel  stretched  forth 

her  hand 

And  comforted  fair  Geraldine  : 
O   well    bright  dame   may   you 

command 

The  service  of  Sir  Leoline  ; 
And  gladly  our  stout  chivalry 
Will  he   send  forth  and  friends 

withal 
To    guide  and  guard  you  safe 

and  free 

Home  to  your  noble  father's  hall. 
She  rose  :  and  forth  with   steps 

they  passed 
That  strove  to  be,  and  were  not, 

fast. 
Her    gracious   STARS    the    lady 

blest, 

And  thus  spake  on   sweet  Chris- 
tabel ; 

All  our  household  are  at  rest, 
The  hall  as  silent  as  the  roll, 
Sir  Leoline  is  weak  in  health 
And  may  not  well  awakened  be> 
But     we    will    move    as    if    in 

stealth  : 

And  I  beseech  your  courtesy 
This  night,  to  share  your  couch 

with  me. 


CHRISTABEL. 


121 


They     crossed     the    moat,   arid 

Christabel 

Took  the  key  that  fitted  well  ; 
A  little  door  she  opened  straight, 
All  in  the  middle  of  the  gate  ; 
The  gate  that  was  ironed  within 

and  without, 
W^here  an  army  in   battle-array 

had  marched  out ; 
The  lady  sank,  belike  through 

pain, 
And  Christabel  with  might  and 

main 

Lifted  her  up,  a  weary  weight, 
Over  the  threshold  of  the  gate  : 
Then  the  lady  rose  again, 
And  moved,  as  she  were  not  in 

pain. 

So  free   from  danger,  free  from 

fear, 
They    crossed   the    court :  right 

glad  they  were. 
And  Christabel  devoutly  cried 
To  the  lady  by  her  side, 
Praise  we  the  Virgin  all  divine 
Who  hath  rescued  thee  from  thy 

distress  ! 

Alas,  alas  !  said  Geraldine, 
I  cannot  speak  for  weariness. 
So  free  from  danger,  free  from 

fear, 
They   crossed  the   court  :  right 

glad  they  were. 

Outside  her  kennel,  the  mastiff 

old 
Lay  fast   asleep,  in   moonshine 

cold. 

The  mastiff  old  did  not  awake, 
Yet  she    an    angry    moan    did 

make! 
And   what   can   ail  the  mastiff 

bitch  ? 

Never  till  now  she  uttered  yell 
Beneath  the  eye  of  Christabel. 


Perhaps  it  is  the  owlet's  scriteh: 
For    what  can   ail   the   mastiff 
bitch  ? 

They  passed  the  hall,  that  echoes 

still, 

Pass  as  lightly  as  you  will ! 
The  brands  were  flat,  the  brands 

were  dying, 
Amid   their    own     white    ashey 

lying  ;x 
But  when  the  lady  passed,  there 

came 

A  tongue  of  light,  a  fit  of  flame  ; 
And   Christabel  saw  the  lady's 

eye, 

And  nothing  else  saw  she  there- 
by. 
Save   the  boss   of  the  shield  of 

Sir  Leolino  tall, 
Which   hung   in   a  murky  old 

niche  in  the  wall. 
O  softly  tread,  said  Christabel, 
My  father  seldom  sleepeth  well. 

Sweet  Christabel  her  feet  doth 

bare, 

Arid  jealous  of  the  listening  air 
They  steal  their  way  from  stair 

to  stair, 
Now  in   glimmer,   and  now  in 

gloom, 
And  now  they  pass  the  Baron's 

room, 
As  still   as   death,    with  stifled 

breath  ! 
And    now    have    reached    her 

chamber  door ; 
And   now  doth  Geraldine  pres? 

down 
The  rushes  of  the  chamber  floor. 

The  moon  shines  dim  in  the  open 

air, 
And    not  a  moonbeam    enters 

here. 


122 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


But  they  without  its  light  can 

see 
The    chamber    carved   so   curi-  j 

ously, 
Carved  with  figures  strange  and 

sweet, 
All   made   out   of    the    carver's 

brain, 

Foi  a  lady's  chamber  meet : 
The   lamp   with  twofold    silvei 

chain 

Is  fastened  to  an  angel's  feet. 
The  silver  lamp  burns  dead  and 

dim  ; 
But   Christabel   the    lamp   will 

trim. 
She    trimmed    the    lamp,    and 

made  it  bright, 

And  left  it  swinging  to  and  fro, 
While    Geraldine    in    wretched 

plight, 
Sank     down     upon    the    floor 

below. 

0  weary  lady,  Geraldine, 

1  pray  you,  drink  this  cordial 

wine  I 

It  is  a  wine  of  virtuous  powers  j 
My  mother  made  it  of  wild  flow- 
ers. 

And  will  your  mother  pity  me, 
Who  am  a  maiden  most  forlorn  ? 
Christabel    answered  —  Woe  is 

me  1 
She   died   the  hour  that  I  was 

born. 
I   have  heard    the  gray-haired 

friar  tell, 
Ilow  on  her  death-bed  she  did 

say, 
That  she  should  hear  the  castle 

bell 
Strike  twelve  upon  iny  wedding 

day. 


0  mother  dear  I  that  thou  wert 

here  ! 

1  would,   said    Geraldine,    she 

were 

But  soon  with  altered  voice,  said 

she — 
'  Off,  wandering   mother !   Peak 

and  pine  ! 

I  have  power  to  bid  thee  flee-' 
Alas  !  what  ails  poor  Geraldine  ? 
Why   stares  she  with   unsettled 

eye? 

Can  she  the  bodiless  dead  espy  ? 
Arid  why  with  hollow  voice  cries 

she, 
'  Off,  woman,  off  1  this  hour  is 

mine — 
Though  thou  her  guardian  spirit 

be, 
Off,  woman,  oft7!  'tis  given  tome.' 

Then    Christabel    knelt  by  the 

lady'e  side, 
And  raised  to  heaven  her  eyes  so 

blue- 
Alas  !  said  she,  this  ghastly  ride — 
Dear  lady !  it  hath  wildered  you  ! 
The  lady  wiped  her  moist  cold 

brow, 
And  faintly  said,  *  'tis  over  now  ! ' 

Again  the  wild-flower  wine  she 

drank! 
Her  fair  large  eyes  'gan  glitter 

bright, 
And  from  the  floor  whereon  she 

sank, 

The  lofty  lady  stood  upright ; 
She  was  most  beautiful  to  see, 
Like  a  lady  of  a  far  countree. 

Arid  thus  the  lofty  lady  spake— 
All  they  who    live   in  the  upper 

sky, 

Do  love  you,  holy  Christabel  I 
And  you  love  them,  and  for  their 

sake 


CHRISTABEL. 


123 


And  for  the  good  which  me  be- 
fell, 

Even  I  in  my  degree  will  try, 
Fair  maiden,  to  requite  you  well. 
But  now  unrobe  yourself  ;  for  I 
Must  pray,  ere  yet  in  bed  I  lie. 

Quoth  Christabel,  so  let  it  be  ! 
A.nd  as  the  lady  bade,  did  she. 
Her  gentle  limbs  did  she  undress, 
And  lay  down  in  her  loveliness. 

But  through  her  brain  of  weal 

and  woe 
So  many  thoughts  moved  to  and 

fro, 
That  vain  it  were  her  lids  to 

close ; 
So   half-way  from   the  bed  she 

rose, 

Arid  on  her  elbow  did  recline 
To  look  at  the  lady  Geraldine. 

Beneath  the  lamp  the  lady 
bowed, 

Arid  slowly  rolled  her  eyes 
around  ; 

Then  drawing  in  her  breath 
aloud, 

Like  one  that  shuddered,  she  un- 
bound 

The  cincture  from  beneath  her 
breast  : 

Her  silken  robe,  and  inner  vest, 

Dropt  to  her  feet,  and  full  in 
view, 

Behold  !  her  bosom  and  half  her 
side 

A  sight  to  dream  of,  not  to  tell ! 

0  shield  her  !  shield  sweet  Chris- 
tabel ! 

Yet  Geraldine  nor  speaks  nor 
stirs  : 

Ah  !  what  a  stricken  look  was 
hers  ! 

Deep  from  within  she  seems  half- 
way 


To   lift  some   weight   with  sick 

assay, 

And  eyes  the  maid  and  seeks  de- 
lay ; 

Then  suddenly,  as  one  defied, 
Collects    herself    in    scorn    and 

pride, 
And  lay  down  by  the  Maiden'8 

side  ! — 
And  in  her  arms  the  maid  she 

took, 

Ah,  wel-a-day! 
And  with  low  voice  arid  doleful 

look 

These  words  did  say  : 
In  the  touch  of  this  bosom  there 

worketh  a  spell, 
Which  is  lord  of  thy  utterance, 

Christabel  t 
Thou  knowest  to-night,  and  wilt 

know  to-morrow 
This  mark  of  my  shame,  this  seal 

of  my  sorrow ; 
But  vainly  thou  warmest, 

For  this  is  alone  in 
Thy  power  to  declare, 

That  in  the  dim  forest 
Thou  heardesta  low  moaning, 
And  found'st  a  bright  lady,  sur- 
passingly fair  : 
Arid  didst  bring  her  home  with 

thee  in  love  and  in  charity, 
To  shield    her  and  shelter  her 

from  the  damp  air. 


THE   CONCLUSION   TO    PART   THH 
FIRST. 

IT  was  a  lovely  sight  to  see 
The  lady  Christabel,  when  she 
Was  praying  at  the  old  oak  tree 
Amid  the  jagged  shadows 
Of  mossy  leafless  boughs, 
Kneeling  in  the  moonlight, 
To  make  her  gentle  vows  ; 


124 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


Her  slender  palms  together  prest, 
Heaving      sometimes      on     her 

breast ; 
Her    face    resigned    to  bliss  or 

bale — 

Her  face,  oh  call  it  fair  not  pale, 
And  both  blue  eyes  more  bright 

than  clear, 

Each  about  to  have  a  tear. 
With  open  eyes  (ah  woe  is  me !) 
Asleep,  and  dreaming  fearfully, 
Fearfully  dreaming,  yet  I  wis, 
Dreaming  that  alone,  which  is — 
O  sorrow  and  shame !     Can  this 

be  she, 
The  lady  who  knelt  at  the  old 

oak  tree  ? 
And   lo  !    the  worker    of    these 

harms, 
That  holds  the  maiden  in  her 

arms, 

Seems  to  slumber  still  and  mild, 
As  a  mother  with  he*  child. 

A  star  hath  set,  a  star  hath  risen, 
O  Geraldine  !  since  arms  of  thine 
Have  been  the  lovely  lady's 

prison. 

O  Geraldine  !  one  hour  was  thine 
Thou'st  had  thy  will !  By  tairn 

and  rill, 
The  night-birds    all    that  hour 

were  still. 

But  now  they  are  jubilant  anew, 
From  cliff  arid  tower,  tu — whoo  1 

tu — whoo  ! 
Tu  —  whoo  !    tu  —  whoo  !  from 

wood  and  fell ! 
And  see  !  the  lady  Christabel 
Gathers    herself    from    out    her 

trance ; 

Her  limbs  relax,  her  countenance 
Grows  sad  and  soft ;  the  smooth 

thin  lids 
Close   o'er  her  eyes ;  and  tears 

she  sheds — 


Large  tears  that  leave  the  lashes 

bvight ! 
And  oft  the  while  she  seems  to 

smile 

As  infants  at  a  sudden  light ! 
Yea,   she    doth    smile,   and  shf 

doth  weep, 
Like  a  youthful  hermitees, 
Beauteous  in  a  wilderness, 
Who,  praying  always,  prays  in 

sleep. 

And,  if  she  move  unquietly, 
Perchance  'tis  but  the  blood  so 

free, 
Comes  back  and  tingles  in  hei- 

feet. 
No    doubt,   she    hath   a  vision 

sweet. 
What    if    her    guardian     spirit 

'twere, 
What  if  she   knew  her  mother 

near? 
But  this  she  knows,  in  joys  and 

voes, 
That  saints  will  aid  if  men  will 

call: 
For  the  blue  sky  bends  over  all ! 


PART   THE    SECOND. 

EACH    matin    bell,   the    Baron 

saith, 
Knells  us  back  to  a  world  of 

death. 

These  words  Sir  Leoline  first  said , 
When  he  rose  and  found  his  lady 

dead: 

These  words  Sir  Leoline  will  say, 
Many  a  morn  to  his  dying  day. 
And  hence  the  custom  and  law 

began, 

That  still  at  dawn  the  sacristan 
Who  duly  pulls  the  heavy  bell, 
Five  and  forty  beads  must  tell 


CHRISTABEL. 


Between  each  stroke — a  warning 

knell, 
Which  not  a  soul  can  choose  but 

hear 
From  Bratha  Head  to  Wynder- 

mere. 

Saith  Bracy   the  bard,  So  let  it 

knell ! 

And  let  the  drowsy  sacristan 
Still  count  as  slowly  as  he  can ! 
There  is  no  lack  of  such,  I  ween 
As  well  fill  up  the  space  between. 
In  Langdale  Pike  and  Witch's 

Lair, 
And     Dungeon-ghyll    so    foully 

rent, 
With  ropes  of  rock  and  bells  of 

air 
Three  sinful  sextons'  ghosts  are 

pent, 
Who    all  give  back,   one    after 

t'other, 
The  death-note  to   their  living 

brother ; 

And  oft  too,   by    the  knell  of- 
fended. 
Just  as  their  one  !  two  !  three  ! 

is  ended, 

The  devil  mocks  the  doleful  tale 
With  a  merry  peal  from  Borrow- 

dale. 

The  air  is  still !    through  mist 

and  cloud 
That  merry  peal  comes  ringing 

loud ; 
And  Geraldine    shakes  off    her 

dread, 

And  rises  lightly  from  the  bed ; 
Puts    on    her  silken    vestments 

white, 
And  tricks    her    hair  in  lovely 

plight, 
And  nothing    doubting  of    her 

spell 
Awakens  the  tedy  Christabel. 


'  Sleep  you,  sweet  lady  Christa- 
bel? 
I  trust  that  you  have  rested  well.* 

And  Christabel  awoke  and  spied 
The  same  who  lay  down  by  her 

side — 

O  rather  say,  the  same  whom  she 
Raised  up  beneath  the  old  oak 

tree  ! 
Nay,   fairer  yet!   and  yet  more 

fair! 

For  she  belike  hath  drunken  deep 
Of  all  the  blessedness  of  sleep  ! 
And  while  she  spake,  her  looks, 

her  air 

Such  gentle  thankfulness  declare. 
That  (so  it  seemed)   her  girded 

vests 
Grew  tight  beneath  her  heaving 

breasts. 

'  Sure  I  have  sinned  ! '  said  Chris- 
tabel, 
'  Now  Heaven  be  praised  \i  all  be 

well ! ' 
And  in  low  faltering  tones,  yet 

sweet, 

Did  she  the  lofty  lady  greet 
With  such  perplexity  of  mind 
As  dreams  too  lively  leave  be- 
hind. 
So  quickly  she  rose,  and  quickly 

arrayed 
Her  maiden  limbs,  and  having 

prayed 
That  He,  who  on  the  cross  did 

groan, 
Might  wash   away  her  sms  un 

known, 

She  forthwith  led  fair  Geraldine 
To  meet  her  sire,  Sir  Leoline. 

The  lovely  maid  and  the  lady  tall 
Are  pacing  both  into  the  halJ, 
And  pacing  on  through  page  and 

groom 
Enter  the  Baron's  presence  room, 


126 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


The   Baron  rose,   and  while  he 

prest 

His  gentle  daughter  to  his  breast 
With  cheerful  wonder  in  his  eyes 
The  lady  Geraldine  espies, 
And  gave  such  welcome  to  the 

same, 
As   might    beseem    so  bright  a 

dame ! 

But  when  he  heard  the  lady's 

tale, 
And  when  she  told  her  father's 

name, 

Why  waxed  Sir  Leoline  so  pale, 
Murmuring  o'er  the  name  again 
Lord  Roland  de  Vaux  of  Tryer- 

maine  ? 

Alas  !  they  had  been  friends  in 
youth  ; 

But  whispering  tongues  can  poi- 
son truth  ; 

And   constancy  lives    in  realms 
above ; 

And  life  is  thorny  ;  and  youth  is 
vain  ; 

And  to  be  wroth  with  one  we  love, 

Doth  work  like  madness  in  the 
brain. 

And  thus  it  chanced,  as  I  divine, 

With  Roland  and  Sir  Leoline. 

Each  spake  words  of  high  dis- 
dain 

And  insult  to  his  heart's  best 
brother : 

They      parted — ne'er    to    meet 
again  ! 

But  never  either  found  another 

To  free  the   hollow  heart  from 
paining — 

They  stood  aloof,  the  scars  re- 
maining, 

Like  cliils  which  had  been  rent 
Bunder ; 

A  dreary  sea  now  flows  between, 


But  neither  heat,  nor  frost,  not 

thunder, 

Shall  wholly  do  away,  I  ween, 
The  marks  of  that  which  once 

hath  been. 

Sir  Leoline,  a  moment's  space, 
Stood  gazing  on    the    damsel'? 

face  ; 
And  the  youthful  Lord  of  Tryer- 

maine 
Came    back    upon    his    hea^t 

again. 

O  then  the  Baron  forgot  his  ages 
His   noble    heart    swelled    high 

with  rage ; 
He    swore    by    the    wounds    in 

Jesu's  side, 
He   would  proclaim  it  far  and 

wide 

With   trump  and  solemn    her- 
aldry, 
That      they,     who     thus     had 

wronged  the  dame, 
Were  base  as  spotted  infamy  ! 
'  And  if  they  dare  deny  the  same, 
My  herald  shall  appoint  a  week, 
And   let    the    recreant    traitors 

seek 
My  tourney   court — that    there 

and  then 

may    dislodge    their    reptile 
souls  [men ! 

From  the  bodies  of  and  forms  of 
He  spake:  his  eye  in  lightning 

rolls  ! 
For    the     lady    was    ruthlessly 

seized  ;  and  he  kenned 
In  the  beautiful  lady  the  child 

of  his  friend  1 
And  now  the  tears  were  on  his 

face, 

And  fondly  in  his  arms  he  took 
Fair  Geraldine,    who    met    the 

embrace, 
rolonging  it  with  joyous  look 


CHRISTABEL. 


127 


Which  when  she  viewed,  a  vis- 
ion fell 

Upon  the  soul  of  Christabel, 

The  vision  of  fear,  the  touch  and 
pain! 

She  shrunk  and  shuddered,  and 
saw  again 

(Ah,  woe  is  me!  Was  it  for 
thee, 

Thou  gentle  maid !  such  sights 
to  see  ?) 

Again  she  saw  that  bosom  old, 
Again  she  felt  that  bosom  cold, 
And  drew  in  her  breath  with  a 

hissing  sound : 
Whereat     the    Knight    turned 

wildly  round, 
And  nothing  saw,  but  his  owYi 

sweet  maid 
With  eyes  upraised,  as  one  that 

prayedo 

The  touch,  the  sight,  had  passed 

away, 
And    in  its    stead    that    vision 

blest, 

Which  comforted  her  after-rest, 
While  in  the  lady's  arms  she  lay, 
Had  put  a  rapture  in  her  breast, 
And  on  her  lips  ami  o'er  her 

eyes, 
Spread  smiles  like  light ! 

With  new  surprise, 
;  What  ails    then    my    beloved 

child  ? ' 
The   Baron   said— His  daughter 

mild 
Made  answer,   '  All  will  yet  be 

well ! ' 

I  ween  she  had  no  power  to  tell 
Aught  else  :  so  mighty  was  the 

spell. 

Yet  he,  who  saw  this  Geraldine. 
Had  deemed  her  sure  a  thing 

divine, 


Such  sorro  w  with  such  grace  shi 

blended, 

As  if  she  feared  she  had  offended 
Sweet    Christabel,    that    gentle 

maid  ! 
And  with  such  lowly  tones  she 

prayed, 

She  might  be  sent  without  de- 
lay 

Home  to  her  father's  mansion. 
'Nay! 

Nay,  by  my  soul !'  said  Leoline. 
'  Ho  !  Bracy  the  bard,  the  charge 

be  thine  ! 
Go  thou,  writh  music  sweet  and 

loud, 

And  take  two  steeds  with  trap- 
pings proud, 
And  take  the  youth  whom  thou 

lov'st  best, 
To  bear  thy  harp,  and  learn  thy 

song, 
And  clothe  you  both  in  solemn 

vest, 
And  over  the  mountains  haste 

along, 
Lest  wandering  folk,   that    a?e 

abroad, 

Detain  you  on  tne  valley  road. 
And  when  he  hath  crossed  the 

Irthing  flood, 
My  merry  bard !  he  hastes,  he 

hastes 
Up  Knorren  Moor,  through  Hale 

garth  Wood, 
And   reaches  soon    that    castl* 

good 
Which    stands    and    threatens 

Scotland's  wastes. 

Bard  Bracy  !  bard  Bracy  !  your 

horses  are  fleet, 
You  must  ride  up  the  hall,  youi 

music  so  sweet, 
More  loud  than  your  horses' 

echoing  feet ! 


128 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


And    loud    and    loud    to   Lord 

Roland  call, 
Thy  daughter  is  safe  in  Langdale 

hall  I 
Thy  beautiful  daughter  is  safe 

and  free — 
Sir    Leoline    greets    thee    thus 

through  me. 

He  bids  thee  come  without  de- 
lay, 

With  all  thy  numerous  array, 
And   take  thy  lovely  daughter 

home  : 
And  he  will  meet  thee  on  the 

way 

With  all  his  numerous  array 
White  with  their  panting  pal- 
freys' foam, 

And,  by  my  honor !  I  will  say, 
That  I  repent  me  of  the  day, 
When  I  spake  words  of   fierce 

disdain 
To  Ronald   de  Vaux  of  Tryer- 

maine ! — 
—For  since  that  evil  hour  hath 

flown, 
Many    a    summer's    sun    have 

shone ; 

Yet  ne'er  found  I  a  friend  again 
Like  Roland  de  Vaux  of  Tryer- 

maine.' 


The  lady  fell,  and  clasped  his 
knees, 

Her  face  upraised,  her  eyes  o'er- 
fl owing  ; 

And  Bracy  replied  with  faulter- 
ing  voice, 

His  gracious  hail  on  all  bestow- 
ing :  — 

Thy  words,  thy  sire  of  Christ- 
abel, 

Are  sweeter  than  my  harp  can 
tell, 

Yet  might  I  gain  a  boon  of  the«, 


This  day  my  journey  should  not 

be; 
So  strange  a  dream  hath  come  to 

me: 

That  I  vowed  with  music  loud 
To  clear  yon  wood  from  thing 

unblest, 

Warned  by  a  vision  in  my  rest ! 
For  in  my  sleep  I  saw  that  dove, 
That  gentle  bird  whom  them 

dost  love. 

And  call'st  by  thy  own  daugh- 
ter's name — 

Sir  Leoline  !  I  saw  the  same 
Fluttering,  and  uttering  fearful 

moan, 
Among  the  green  herbs  in  the 

forest  alone: 
Which  when  I  saw  and  when  I 

heard, 
I  wondered  what  might  ail  the 

bird: 

For  nothing  near  it  could  I  see, 
Save  the  grass   and   the  green 

herbs    underneath  the    old 

tree. 


And  in  my  dream,  methought,  I 

went 
To  search  out  what  might  there 

be  found : 
And     what     the     sweet     bird's 

trouble  meant, 
That  thus  lay  fluttering  on  the 

groundo 
I  went  and  peered,  and  could 

descry 

No  cause  for  her  distressful  cry  \ 
But  yet  for  her  dear  lady's  sake 
I  stooped,  methought,  the  dove 

to  take, 
When  lo !  I  saw  a  bright  green 

snake 
Coiled    around  its    wings    and 

neck. 


CHRISTABEL. 


129 


Green  as  the  herbs  on  which  it 

couched, 
Close  by  the  dove  its  head  it 

crouched  ; 
Arid  with  the  dove  it  heaves  and 

stirs, 
Swelling  its  neck  as  she  swelled 

hers  ! 
I   awoke  ;  it  was  the  midnight 

hour, 
The  clock   was  echoing  in  the 

tower  ; 
But  though    my    slumber  was 

gone  by, 
This  dream  it  would  not  pass 

away — 

It  seems  to  live  upon  my  eye  ! 
And   thence  I  vowed  this  self- 
same day, 
With  music  strong  and  saintly 

song 
To  wander  through   the  forest 

bare 
Less  aught  unholy  loiter  there. 

Thus  Bracy  said;    the    Baron, 
the  while, 

Half-listening  heard  him  with  a 
smile  ; 

Then  turned  to  Lady  Geraldine, 

His  eyes  made  up  of  wonder  and 
love  ; 

And  said  in  courtly  accents  fine, 

Sweet  maid,  Lord  Roland's  beau- 
teous dove, 

With  arms  more  strong  than  harp 
or  song, 

Thy  sire   and  I   will  crush   the 
snake  1 

He  kissed    her    forehead    as  he 
spake, 

And  Geraldine  in  maiden  wise, 

Casting  down  her  large  bright 
eyes, 

With  blushing  cheek  and  cour- 
tesy fine 


She  turned  her  from  Sir  Leoline  \ 

Softly  gathering  up  her  train, 

That  o'er  her  right  arm  fell 
again  ; 

And  folded  her  arms  across  her 
chest, 

And  couched  her  head  upon  her 
breast, 

And  looked  askance  at  Christa- 
bel— 

Jesu,  Maria,  shield  her  well ! 

A  snake's  small  eye  blinks  dull 

and  shy, 
And  the  lady's  eyes  they  shrunk 

in  her  head, 
Each  shrunk  up   to   a   serpent's 

eye, 
And  with  somewhat  of    malice, 

and  more  of  dread 
At   Christabel     she   looked   ask- 
ance ! — 
One  moment — and  the  sight  was 

fled! 

But  Christabel  in  dizzy  trance, 
Stuinbliv°r     on     the      unsteady 

ground — 
Shuddered  aloud  with  a  hissing 

sound  ; 
And    Geraldine     again    turned 

round,  [lief, 

And  like  a  thing,  that  sought  re- 
Full  of  wonder  and  full  of  grief, 
She  rolled  her  large  bright  eyes 

divine 
Wildly  on  Sir  Leoline. 

The  maid,  alas  !  her  thoughts  are 

gone, 
She  nothing  sees — no  sight  but 

one  ! 
The   maid,  devoid   of   guile  and 

sin, 

I  know  not  now,  in  fearful  wise 
So  deeply  had  she  drunken  in 
That  look,  those  shrunken  ser- 
pent eyes, 


130 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


That  all   her  features  were  re- 
signed 

To  this  sole  image  in  her  mind  : 
And  passively  did  imitate 
That  look  of  dull  and  treacher- 
ous hate, 
And   thus  she    stood,   in   dizzy 

trance, 

Still  picturing  that  look  askanse, 
With  forced    unconscious   sym- 
pathy 

Full  before  her  father's  view — 
As  far  as  such  a  look  could  be, 
In  eyes  so  innocent  and  blue ! 
And  when  the  trance  was  o'er, 

the  maid 

Paused  awhile  and  inly  prayed, 
Then  falling  at  her  father's  feet, 
*  By  my  mother's  soul  do  I  en- 
treat, 
That    thou     this    woman  send 

away !  ' 
She  said ;  and  more  she  could 

not  say, 
For  what  she  knew  she  could 

not  tell, 

O'er-mastered    by    the    mighty 
spell. 

Why  is  thy  cheek  so  wan   and 

wild, 

Sir  Leoline ?     Thy  only  child 
Lies  at  thy  feet,   thy  joy,   thy 

pride, 

So  fair,  so  innocent,  so  mild  ; 
The  same,  for  whom  thy   lady 

died! 
O   by   the    pangs    of   her  dead 

mother 

Think  thou  no  evil  of  thy  child  ! 
For  her,  and  thee,  and  for  no 

other, 
She  prayed  the  moment  ere  she 

died  : 
Prayed  that  the  babe  for  whom 

ahe  died, 


Might  prove  her  dear  lord's  joy 

and  pride  ! 

That  prayer  her  deadly  pangs 
beguiled, 

Sir  Leoline ! 

And  wouldst  thou    wrong  thy 
only  child, 

Her  child  and  thine  ? 
Within    the  Baron's  heart  and 

brain 
If  thoughts,  like  these,  had  any 

share, 
They  only  swelled  his  rage  arid 

pain, 
And     did    but    work  confusion 

there. 
His  heart  was    cleft  with  pain 

and  rage, 
His  cheeks    they   quivered,   his 

eyes  were  wild, 

Dishonored  thus  in  his  old  age ; 
Dishonored  by  his  only  child, 
And  all  his  hospitality 
To  th'  insulted  daughter  of  hia 

friend, 

By  more  than  woman's  jealousy, 
Brought .  thus  to  a  disgraceful 

end — 

He  rolled  his  eye  with  stern  re- 
gard 

Upon  the  gentle  minstrel  bard, 
Arid  said  in  tones  abrupt,   aus- 
tere—  [here  ? 
Why,   Bracy  !    dost  thou   loiter 
I  bade  thee  hence!    The  bard 

obeyed  ; 
And  turning  from  his  own  sweet 

maid, 

The  aged  knight,  Sir  Leoline, 
Led  forth  the  lady  Geraldirie  I 

THE    CONCLUSION  TO  PART  THB 
SECOND. 

A  little  child,  a  limber  elf, 
Singing,  dancing  to  itself, 


CHRISTABEL. 


A  fairy  thing  with  red  round 
cheeks 

That  always  finds  and  never 
seeks, 

Makes  such  a  vision  to  the  sight 

As  fills  a  father's  eyes  with  light; 

And  pleasures  flow  in  so  thick 
and  fast 

Upon  his  heart,  that  he  at  last 

Must  needs  express  his  love's 
excess 

With  words  of  unmeant  bitter- 
ness. 

Perhaps  'tis  pretty  to  force  to- 
gether 

Thoughts  so  unlike  each  other  ; 


To  mutter  and  mock  a  broken 

charm, 
To  dally  with  wrong  that  does 

no  harm. 
Perhaps     'tis    tender    too    and 

pretty  [in 

At  each  wild  word  to  feel  with. 
A  sweet  recoil  of  love  and  pity. 
And  what  if  in  a  world  of  sin 
(O  sorrow  and  shame  should  this 

be  true !) 
Such    giddiness    of    heart    and 

brain 
Comes  seldom   save   from   rage 

and  pain, 
So  talks  as  it's  most  used  to  do. 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 


I.     POEMS   OCCASIONED    BY   POLITICAL  EVENTS,    OR    FEELINGS 
CONNECTED   WITH   THEM. 

WHEN  I  have  borne  in  memory  what  has  tamed 

Great  nations,  how  ennobling  thoughts  depart 

When  men  change  swords  for  ledgers,  and  desert 

The  student's  bower  for  gold,  some  fears  unnamed 

I  had,  my  country  !     Am  I  to  be  blamed  ? 

But,  when  1  think  of  'Ihee,  and  what  thou  art, 

Verily,  in  the  bottom  of  my  heart, 

Of  thosa  unrilial  fears  1  am  ashamed. 

But  dearly  must  we  pri/e  thee  ;  we  who  find 

In  thee  a  bulwark  of  the  cause  of  men  ; 

And  I  by  my  apection  was  beguiled. 

What  wonder  if  a  poet,  now  and  then, 

Among  the  many  movements  of  his  mind, 

Felt  for  thee  as  a  Lover  or  a  Child.— WORDSWORTH. 


ODE  TO  THE  DEPARTING  YEAR  * 


*IOV.   tOUjW 

'Yjr'  av  fxe  Seivbs  op^o/aai'Teia? 
Srpo/Sei,  Tapa<7<ro>!'  <£poi/uu'ots  e</>rjju.ioi?. 
***** 

To  /xeAAoi'  TJ£ei.     Kal  av  /u.'  «"  Ta^ei  irapitv 

A.yav  y'  a\r)06nai>Tii>  otKreipa?  epfls.—sEschyl.  Agam.,  1225. 


ARGUMENT. 

THE  Ode  commences  with  an  address  to  the  Divine  Providence,  that  regulates  into 
one  vast  harmony  all  the  events  of  time,  however  calamitous  some  of  them  may  ap- 
pear to  mortals.  The  second  Strophe  calls  on  men  to  suspend  their  private  joys  and 
Borrows,  and  devote  them  for  a  while  to  the  cause  of  human  nature  in  general.  The 
first  Kpode  speaks  of  the  Empress  of  Russia,  who  died  of  an  apoplexy  on  the  17th  ot 
November,  17%  ;  having  just  concluded  a  subsidiary  treaty  with  the  Kings  combined 
against  France.  The  first  and  second  Antistrophe  describe  the  Image  of  the  Depart- 
ing Year,  &c.,  as  in  a  vision.  The  second  Epode  prophesies,  in  anguish  of  spirit,  the 
downfall  of  this  country. 

I. 

SPIRIT  \vho  sweepest  the  wild  harp  of  Time ! 

It  is  most  hard,  with  an  untroubled  ear 

Thy  dark  inwoven  harmonies  to  hear  ! 
Yet,  mine  eye  fixed  on  Heaven's  unchanging  clime, 

*  This  Od<>  was  composed  on  the  24th.  25th,  and  2Gth  days  of  December,  1796:  and 
was  first  published  on  the  last  day  of  that  year. 


SIB  YLUNE  LEA  VES.  1 33 


Long  had  I  listened  free  from  mortal  fear, 
With  inward  stillness  and  a  bowed  mind  ; 
When  lo  !  its  folds  far  waving  on  the  wind. 
I  saw  the  train  of  the  departing  Year  ! 
Starting  from  my  silent  sadness 
Then  with  no  unholy  madness 
Ere  yet  the  entered  cloud  foreclosed  my  sight, 
I  raised  the  impetuous  song,  arid  solemnized  his  flight. 

II. 

Hither,  from  the  recent  tomb, 

From  the  prison's  direr  gloom, 
From  distemper's  midnight  anguish  ; 
And  thence,  where  poverty  doth  waste  and  languish  I 
Or  where,  his  two  bright  torches  blending, 

Love  illumes  manhood's  maze  ; 
Or  where  o'er  cradled  infants  bending 
Hope  has  fixed  her  wishful  gaze ; 

Hither  in  perplexed  dance, 
Ye  Woes  !  ye  young-eyed  Joys  !  advance  I 

By  Time's  wild  harp,  and  by  the  hand 
Whose  indefatigable  sweep 
Raises  its  fateful  strings  from  sleep, 
I  bid  you  haste,  a  mixed  tumultuous  band ! 
From  every  private  bower, 

And  each  domestic  hearth, 
Haste  for  one  solemn  hour  ; 
And  with  a  loud  arid  yet  a  louder  voice, 
O'er  Nature  struggling  in  portentous  birth, 

Weep  and  rejoice ! 

Still  echoes  the  dread  name  that  o'er  the  earth 
Let  slip  the  storm,  and  woke  the  brood  of  Hell  : 

Arid  now  advance  *'n  saintly  jubilee 
Justice  and  Truth  !     They  too  have  heard  thy  spell, 
They  too  obey  thy  name,  divinest  Liberty  ! 

ill. 
I  marked  Ambiticn  in  his  war-array  ! 

I  heard  the  mailed  Monarch's  troublous  cry — 
'  Ah  !  wherefore  does  the  Northern  Coriqueress  stay  I 
Groans  not  her  chariot  on  its  onward  way  ?  ' 

Fly,  mailed  monarch,  fly  ! 
Stunned  by  Death's  twice  mortal  mace, 
No  more  on  murder's  lurid  face 


'34  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


The  insatiate  hag  shall  gloat  with  drunken  eye ! 

Manes  of  the  unnumbered  slain  ! 

Ye  that  gasped  on  Warsaw's  plain  ! 
Ye  that  erst  at  Ismail's  tower, 
When  human  ruin  choked  the  streams, 

Fell  in  conquest's  glutted  hour, 
Mid  women's  shrieks  arid  infants'  screams  I 
Spirits  of  the  uncoffined  slain, 

Sudden  blasts  of  triumph  swelling, 
Oft,  at  night,  in  misty  train, 

Rush  around  her  narrow  dwelling  ! 
The  exterminating  fiend  is  fled  ! — 

(Foul  her  life  arid  dark  her  doom) 
Mighty  armies  of  the  dead* 

Dance,  like  death-fires,  round  her  tomb  \ 
Then  with  prophetic  song  relate, 
Each  some  tyrant-murderer's  fate  1 

IV. 

Departing  Year !  'twas  on  no  earthly  shore 

My  soul  beheld  thy  vision  !     Where  alone, 

Voiceless  and  stern,  before  the  cloudy  throne, 
Aye  Memory  sits :  thy  robe  inscribed  with  gore, 
With  many  an  unimaginable  groan 

Thou  storied'st  thy  sad  hours !     Silence  ensued, 

Deep  silence  o'er  the  ethereal  multitude, 

Whose  locks  with  wreaths,  whose  wreaths  with  glories  shone. 
Then  his  eye  wild  ardors  glancing, 
From  the  choired  gods  advancing, 
The  Spirit  of  the  Earth  made  reverence  meet, 
And  stood  up,  beautiful,  before  the  cloudy  seat. 

v. 

Throughout  the  blissful  throng, 
Hushed  were  harp  and  song  : 

Till  wheeling  round  the  throne  the  Lampads  seven 
(The  mystic  Words  of  Heaven), 
Permissive  signal  make : 

The  fervent  Spirit  bowed,  then  spread  its  wings  and  spake  I 
4  Thou  in  stormy  blackness  throning 
Love  and  uncreated  Light, 
By  the  Earth's  unsolaced  groaning, 

Seize  thy  terrors,  Arm  of  might! 
By  peace  with  proffered  insult  scared, 
Masked  hate  and  envying  scorn  I 
By  years  of  havoc  yet  unborn  I 


SIB  YLLINE  LEA  VE*.  T  3  5 

And  hunger's  bosom  to  tlie  frost- winds  bared  ! 
But  chief  by  Afric's  wrongs, 

Strange,  horrible,  and  foul ! 
By  what  deep  guilt  belongs 
To  the  deaf  Synod,  "  full  of  gifts  and  lies  ! " 
By  wealth's  insensate  laugh  !  by  torture's  howl ! 

Avenger,  rise ! 

Forever  shall  the  thankless  Island  scowl, 
Her  quiver  full,  and  with  unbroken  bow  ? 
Speak  1  from  thy  storm-black  Heaven,  O  speak  aloud ! 

And  on  the  darkling  foe 
Open  thine  eye  of  fire  from  some  uncertain  cloud ! 

O  dart  the  flash  I    0  rise  and  deal  the  blow  I 
The  Past  to  thee,  to  thee  the  Future  cries ! 
Rark,  how  wide  Nature  joins  her  groans  below  I 
Rise,  God  of  Nature  I  rise.' 

VI. 

The  voice  had  ceased,  the  vision  fled  ; 
Yet  still  I  gasped  and  reeled  with  dread. 
And  ever,  when  the  dream  of  night 

Renews  the  phantom  to  my  sight, 
Cold  sweat-drops  gather  on  my  limbs  ; 

My  ears  throb  hot ;  my  eye-  bally  start  ; 
My  brain  with  horrid  tumult  swims  ; 
Wild  is  the  tempest  of  my  heart ; 
And  my  thick  and  struggling  breath 
Imitates  the  toil  of  death  ! 
No  stranger  agony  confounds 

The  soldier  on  the  war-field  spread, 
When  all  foredone  with  toil  and  wounds, 

Death-like  he  dozes  among  heaps  of  dead  I 
(The  strife  is  o'er,  the  daylight  fled, 

And  the  night- wind  clamors  hoarse  ! 
See !  the  starting  wretch's  head 

Lies  pillowed  on  a  brother's  corse !) 

VII. 

Not  yet  enslaved,  not  wholly  vile, 
O  Albion  !     O  my  mother  Isle  ! 
Thy  valleys,  fair  as  Eden's  bowers, 
Glitter  green  with  sunny  showers  ; 
Thy  grassy  uplands'  gentle  swells 

Echo  to  the  bleat  of  flocks 
(Those  grassy  hills,  those  glittering  delle 

Proudly  ramparted  with  rocks)  ; 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


And  Ocean  mid  his  uproar  wild 
Speaks  safety  to  his  island  child. 
Hence  for  many  a  fearless  age 

Has  social  Quiet  loved  thy  shore  \ 
Nor  ever  proud  invaders  rage 
Or  sacked  thy  towers,  or  stained  thy  fields  with  gore. 

VIII. 

Abandoned  of  Heaven  I  mad  avarice  thy  guide, 

At  cowardly  distance,  yet  kindling  with  pride — 

Mid  thy  herds  and  thy  corn-fields  secure  thou  hast  stood. 

And  joined  the  wild  yelling  of  famine  and  blood ! 

The  nations  curse  thee.     They  with  eager  wondering 

Shall  hear  Destruction,  like  a  vulture,  scream  ! 

Strange-eyed  Destruction  !  who  with  many  a  dream 
Of  central  fires  through  neither  seas  upthundering 

Soothes  her  fierce  solitude  ;  yet  as  she  lies 
By  livid  fount,  or  red  volcanic  stream, 

If  ever  to  her  lidless  dragon-eyes, 

O  Albion  !  thy  predestined  ruins  rise, 
The  fiend-hag  on  her  perilous  couch  doth  leap, 
Muttering  distempered  triumph  in  her  charmed  sleep. 

IX. 

Away,  my  soul,  away ! 

In  vain,  in  vain  the  birds  of  warning  sing— 
And  hark  !  I  hear  the  famished  bird  of  prey. 
Flap  their  lank  pennons  on  the  groaning  wind  1 

Away,  my  soul,  away  I 
I,  unpartaking  of  the  evil  thing, 
With  daily  prayer  and  daily  toil 
Soliciting  for  food  my  scanty  soil, 
Have  wailed  my  country  with  a  loud  Lament. 
Now  I  receritre  my  immortal  mind 

In  the  deep  sabbath  of  meek  self-content ; 
Cleansed  from  the  vaporous  passions  that  bedim 
God's  Image,  sister  of  the  Seraphim. 


FRANCE.    AN  ODE. 

i. 
YE  Clouds  !  that  far  above  me  float  and  pause, 

Whose  pathless  march  no  mortal  may  control ! 

Ye  Ocean-Waves !  that,  wheresoe'er  ye  roll, 
Yield  homage  only  to  eternal  laws  ! 


SIB  YLLINE  LEA  VES.  1 3 7 

Ye  Woods  !  that  listen  to  the  night  birds  singing, 
Midway  the  smooth  and  perilous  slope  reclined, 
Save  when  your  own  imperious  branches  swinging, 
Have  made  a  solemn  music  of  the  wind  1 

Where,  like  a  man  beloved  of  God, 
Through  glooms  which  never  woodman  trod, 

How  oft,  pursuing  fancies  holy, 
My  moonlight  way  o'er  flowering  weeds  I  wound, 

Inspired,  beyond  the  guess  of  folly, 
By  each  rude  shape  and  wild  unconquerable  sound  I 

0  ye  loud  Waves  !  and  O  ye  Forests  high  ! 
And  O  ye  Clouds  that  far  above  me  soared  ! 

Thou  rising  Sun,  thou  blue  rejoicing  Sky ! 
Ye,  everything  that  is  and  will  be  free  ! 
Bear  witness  for  me,  wheresoe'er  ye  be, 
With  what  deep  worship  I  have  still  adored 
The  spirit  of  divinest  Liberty. 

II. 

When  France  in  wrath  her  giant-limbs  upreared, 

And  with  that  oath,  which  smote  air,  earth,  and  sea, 

Stamped  with  her  strong  foot  and  said  she  would  be  free, 
Bear  witness  for  me,  how  I  hoped  arid  feared  ! 
With  what  a  joy  my  lofty  gratulation 

Unawed  I  sang,  amid  a  slavish  band  : 
And  when  to  whelm  the  disenchanted  nation, 

Like  fiends  embattled  by  a  wizard's  wand, 
The  Monarchs  marched  in  evil  day, 
And  Britain  joined  the  dire  array  ; 

Though  dear  her  shores  and  circling  ocean, 
Though  many  friendships,  many  youthful  loves, 

Had  swol'n  the  patriot  emotion, 

And  flung  a  magic  light  o'er  all  her  hills  and  groves; 
Yet  still  my  voice,  unaltered,  sang  defeat, 

To  all  that  braved  the  tyrant-quelling  lance, 
And  shame  too  long  delayed  and  vain  retreat ! 
For  ne'er,  O  Liberty !  with  partial  aim 

1  dimmed  thy  light  or  damped  thy  holy  flame  ; 
But  blessed  the  paeans  of  delivered  France, 

And  hung  my  head  and  wept  at  Britain's  name. 

in. 
*  And  what,'  I  said,  '  though  Blasphemy's  loud  scream 

With  that  sweet  music  of  deliverance  strove  ! 

Though  all  the  fierce  and  drunken  passions  wove 
A  dance  more  wild  than  e'er  was  maniac's  dream ! 


1 3 S  COLERID GE  'S  POEMS. 

Ye  storms,  that  round  the  dawning  east  assembled, 
The  Sun  was  rising,  though  ye  hid  his  light ! ' 

And  when,  to  soothe  my  soul,  that  hoped  and  trembled, 
The  dissonance  ceased,  and  all  seemed  calm  and  bright; 
When  France  her  front  deep-scarr'd  and  gory 
Concealed  with  clustering  wreaths  of  glory  ; 

When,  insupportably  advancing, 
Her  arm  made  mockery  of  the  warrior's  tramp  ; 

While  timid  looks  of  fury  glancing, 
Domestic  treason,  crushed  beneath  her  fatal  stamp, 
Writhed  like  a  wounded  dragon  in  his  gore  ; 

Then  I  reproached  my  fears  that  would  not  flee  ; 
*  And  soon,'  I  said,  '  shall  Wisdom  teach  her  lore 
In  the  low  huts  of  them  that  toil  and  ^roan  ! 
And,  conquering  by  her  happiness  alone, 

Shall  France  compel  the  nations  to  be  free, 
Till  Love  and  Joy  look  round,  and  call  the  Earth  their  own.' 

IV. 

Forgive  me,  Freedom  !  O  forgive  those  dreams  ! 

I  hear  thy  voice,  I  hear  thy  loud  lament, 

From  Bleak  Helvetia's  icy  cavern  sent — 
I  hear  thy  groans  upon  her  blood-stained  streams  ! 

Heroes,  that  for  your  peaceful  country  perished, 
And  ye  that,  fleeing,  spot  your  mountain-snows 

With  bleeding  wounds  ;  forgive  me,  that  I  cherished 
One  thought  that  ever  blessed  your  cruel  foes ! 

To  scatter  rage,  and  traitorous  guilt, 

Where  Peace  her  jealous  home  had  built ; 

A  patriot-race  to  disinherit 
Of  all  that  made  their  stormy  wilds  so  dear  ; 

And  with  inexpiable  spirit 

To  taint  the  bloodless  freedom  of  the  mountaineer— 
O  France,  that  mockest  Heaven,  adulterous,  blind, 

And  patriot  only  in  pernicious  toils, 
Are  these  thy  boasts,  Champion  of  humankind  ? 

To  mix  with  Kings  in  the  low  lust  of  sway, 
Yell  in  the  hunt,  arid  share  the  murderous  prey  j 
To  insult  the  shrine  of  Liberty  with  spoils 

From  freemen  torn  ;  to  tempt  and  to  betray  ? 

v. 

The  Sensual  and  the  Dark  rebel  in  vain, 
Slaves  by  their  own  compulsion  !     In  mad  game 
They  burst  their  manacles  and  wear  the  name 

Of  Freedom,  graven  on  a  heavier  chain  ! 


SIB  YLL1NE  LEA  VES.  1 39 


O  Liberty  !  with  profitless  endeavor 
Have  I  pursued  thee,  many  a  weary  hour  ; 

But  thou  nor  swell'st  the  victor's  strain,  nor  ever 
Didst  breathe  thy  soul  in  forms  of  human  power, 
Alike  from  all,  howe'er  they  praise  thee 
(Nor  prayer,  nor  boastful  name  delays  thee), 

Alike  from  Priestcraft's  harpy  minions, 
And  factious  Blasphemy's  obscener  slaves, 

Thou  speedest  on  thy  subtle  pinions, 

The  guide  of  homeless  winds,  and  playmate  of  the  w&ves  r 
!  And  there  I  felt  thee  ! — on  that  sea-cliff's  verge, 

Whose  pines,  scarce  travelled  by  the  breeze  above, 
Had  made  one  murmur  with  the  distant  surge  I 
Yes,  while  I  stood  and  gazed,  my  temples  bare, 
And  shot  my  being  through  earth,  sea,  and  air, 
Possessing  all  things  with  iritensest  love, 

O  Liberty  1  my  spirit  felt  thee  there. 
February,  1797. 


FEARS  IN  SOLITUDE. 

WRITTEN  IN   APRIL,  1798,  DURING  THE   ALARM  OF  AN  I 

A  GREEN  and  silent  spot,  amid  the  hills, 

A  small  and  silent  dell  !    O'er  stiller  place 

No  singing  sky-lark  ever  poised  himself. 

The  hills  are  heathy,  save  that  swelling  slope, 

Which  hath  a  gay  and  gorgeous  covering  on, 

All  golden  with  the  never-bloomless  furze, 

Which  now  blooms  most  profusely  ;  but  the  dell, 

Bathed  by  the  mist,  is  fresh  and  delicate 

As  vernal  corn-field,  or  the  unripe  flax, 

When,  tnrough  its  half-transparent  stalks,  at  eve, 

The  level  sunshine  glimmers  with  green  light. 

Oh  !  'tis  a  quiet  spirit-healing  nook  ! 

Which  all,  methinks,  would  love  ;  but  chiefly  he, 

The  humble  man,  who,  in  his  youthful  years, 

Knew  just  so  much  of  folly,  as  had  made 

His  early  manhood  more  securely  wise  ! 

Here  he  might  lie  on  fern  or  withered  heath, 

While  from  the  singing-lark  (that  sings  unseen 

The  minstrelsy  that  solitude  loves  best), 


140  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

And  from  the  sun,  and  from  the  breezy  air, 
Sweet  influences  trembled  o'er  his  frame  j 
And  he,  with  many  feelings,  many  thoughts, 
Made  up  a  meditative  joy.  and  found 
Religious  meanings  in  the  forms  of  nature ! 
And  so,  his  senses  gradually  wrapt 
In  a  half  sleep,  he  dreams  of  better  worlds, 
And  dreaming  hears  thee  still,  O  singing-lark  ; 
That  singest  like  an  angel  in  the  clouds  ! 

My  God  !  it  is  a  melancholy  thing 
For  such  a  man,  who  would  full  fain  preserve 
His  soul  in  calmness,  yet  perforce  must  feel 
For  all  his  human  brethren — O  my  God ! 
It  weighs  upon  the  heart,  that  he  must  think 
What  uproar  and  what  strife  may  now  be  stirring 
This  way  or  that  way  o'er  these  silent  hills  — 
Invasion,  and  the  thunder  and  the  shout, 
And  all  the  crash  of  onset ;  fear  and  rage, 
And  undetermined  conflict — even  now, 
Even  now,  perchance,  and  in  his  native  isle  : 
Carnage  and  groans  beneath  this  blessed  sun  ! 
We  have  offended,  oh  !  my  countrymen  ! 
We  have  offended  very  grievously, 
And  been  most  tyrannous.     From  east  to  west 
A  groan  of  accusation  pierces  Heaven  ! 
The  wretched  plead  against  us  ;  multitudes 
Countless  and  vehement,  the  sons  of  God, 
Our  brethren  !   Like  a  cloud  that  travels  on, 
Steamed  up  from  Cairo's  swamps  of  pestilence, 
Even  so,  my  countrymen  !  have  we  gone  forth 
And  borne  to  distant  tribes  slavery  and  pangs, 
And,  deadlier  far,  our  vices,  whose  deep  taint 
With  slow  perdition  murders  the  whole  man, 
His  body  and  his  soul !    Meanwhile,  at  home, 
All  individual  dignity  and  power 
Engulfed  in  courts,  committees,  institutions, 
Associations  and  societies, 

A  vain,  speech-mouthing,  speech-reporting  guild, 
One  benefit-club  for  mutual  flattery, 
We  have  drunk  up,  demure  as  at  a  grace, 
Pollutions  from  the  brimming  cup  of  wealth  ; 
Contemptuous  of  all  honorable  rule, 
Yet  bartering  freedom  and  the  poor  man's  life 
For  gold,  as  at  a  market !   The  sweet  words 
Of  Christian  promise,  words  that  even  yet 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES.  14* 

Might  stem  destruction,  were  they  wisely  preached, 

Are  muttered  o'er  by  men,  whose  tones  proclaim 

How  flat  arid  wearisome  they  feel  their  trade  : 

Rank  scoft'ers  some,  but  most  too  indolent 

To  deem  them  falsehoods  or  to  know  their  truth. 

Oh  !  blasphemous !  the  book  of  life  is  made 

A  superstitious  instrument,  011  which 

We  gabble  o'er  the  oaths  we  mean  to  break  ; 

For  all  must  swear — all  and  in  every  place, 

College  and  wharf,  council  and  justice  court; 

All,  all  must  swear,  the  briber  and  the  bribed, 

Merchant  and  lawyer,  senator  and  priest, 

The  rich,  the  poor,  the  old  man  and  the  young; 

All,  all  make  up  one  scheme  of  perjury, 

That  faith  doth  reel  ;  the  very  name  of  God 

Sounds  like  a  juggler's  charm  ;  and,  bold  with  joy, 

Forth  from  his  dark  and  lonely  hiding-place, 

(Portentous  sight!)  the  owlet  Atheism, 

Sailing  on  obscene  wings  athwart  the  noon, 

Drops  his  blue-fringed  lids,  and  holds  them  close, 

And  hooting  at  the  glorious  sun  in  Heaven, 

Cries  out,  '  Where  is  it  ?  ' 

Thankless  too  for  peace 

(Peace  long  preserved  by  fleets  and  perilous  seas) 
Secure  from  actual  warfare,  we  have  loved 
To  swell  the  war-whoop,  passionate  for  war  ! 
Alas  !  for  ages  ignorant  of  all 
Its  ghastlier  workings  (famine  or  blue  plague, 
Battle,  or  siege,  or  flight  through  wintry-snows), 
We,  this  whole  people,  have  been  clamorous 
For  war  and  bloodshed  ;  animating  sports, 
The  which  we  pay  for  as  a  thing  to  talk  of, 
Spectators  and  not  combatants  !     No  guess 
Anticipative  of  a  wrong  urifelt, 
No  speculation  or  contingency, 
However  dim  and  vague,  too  vague  and  dim 
To  yield  a  justifying  cause  ;  and  forth 
(Stuffed  out  with  big  preamble,  holy  names, 
And  adjurations  of  the  God  in  Heaven,) 
We  send  our  mandates  for  the  certain  death 
Of  thousands  and  ten  thousands  !     Boys  and  girls3 
And  women,  that  would  groan  to  see  a  child 
Pull  off  an  insect's  leg,  all  read  of  war, 
The  best  amusement  for  our  morning-meal  ! 
The  poor  wretch,  who  has  learnt  his  only  prayers 


1 45  COLE  RID  GE  'S  POEMS. 

From  curses,  who  knows  scarcety  words  enough 

To  ask  a  blessing  from  his  Heavenly  Father, 

Becomes  a  fluent  phraseman,  absolute 

And  technical  in  victories  and  defeats, 

And  all  our  dainty  terms  for  fratricide  '} 

Terms  which  we  trundle  smoothly  o'er  our  tongues 

Like  mere  abstractions,  empty  sounds  to  which 

We  join  no  feeling  arid  attach  no  form  ! 

As  if  the  soldier  died  without  a  wound  ; 

As  if  the  fibres  of  this  godlike  frame 

Were  gored  without  a  pang  ;  as  if  the  wretch, 

Who  fell  in  battle,  doing  bloody  deeds, 

Passed  off  to  Heaven,  translated  and  not  killed  ; 

As  though  he  had  no  wife  to  pine  for  him, 

No  God  to  judge  him  !     Therefore,  evil  days 

Are  coming  on  us,  O  my  countrymen ! 

And  what  if  all-avenging  Providence, 

Strong  and  retributive,  should  make  us  know 

The  meaning  of  our  words,  force  us  to  feel 

The  desolation  and  the  agony 

Of  our  fierce  doings  ! 

Spare  us  yet  awhile, 

Father  and  God  !     O  !  spare  us  yet  awhile ! 
Oh !  let  not  English  women  drag  their  flight 
Fainting  beneath  the  burthen  of  their  babes, 
Of  the  sweet  infants,  that  but  yesterday 
Laughed  at  the  breast !     Sons,  brothers,  husbands,  all 
Who  ever  gazed  with  fondness  on  the  forms 
Which  grew  up  with  you  round  the  same  fire-side, 
And  all  who  ever  heard  the  sabbath-bells 
Without  the  infidel's  scorn,  make  yourselves  puro ! 
Stand  forth  !  be  men  I  repel  an  impious  foe, 
Impious  and  false,  a  light  yet  cruel  race, 
Who  laugh  away  all  virtue,  mingling  mirth 
With  deeds  of  murder  \  and  still  promising 
Freedom,  themselves  too  sensual  to  be  free, 
Poison  life's  amities,  and  cheat  the  heart 
Of  faith  and  quiet  hope,  and  all  that  soothes 
And  all  that  lifts  the  spirit !     Stand  we  forth  ; 
Render  them  back  upon  the  insulted  ocean, 
And  let  them  toss  as  idly  on  its  waves 
As  the  vile  sea-weed,  which  some  mountain-blast 
Swept  from  our  shores !     And  oh  !  may  we  return 
Not  with  a  drunken  triumph,  but  with  fear, 
Repenting  of  the  wrongs  with  whyjh  we  stung 
So  fierce  a  foe  to  frenzy  I 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES.  143 

I  have  told, 

O  Britons  !  0  my  brethren  !  I  have  told 
Most  bitter  truth,  but  without  bitterness. 
Nor  deem  my  zeal  or  factious  or  mis-timed  ; 
For  never  can  true  courage  dwell  with  them, 
Who,  playing  tricks  with  conscience,  dare  not  look 
At  their  own  vices.     We  have  been  too  long 
Dupes  of  a  deep  delusion  !     Some,  belike, 
Groaning  with  restless  enmity,  expect 
All  change  from  change  of  constituted  power  ; 
As  if  a  Government  had  been  a  robe, 
On  which  our  vice  and  wretchedness  were  tagged 
Like  fancy-points  and  fringes,  with  the  robe 
Pulled  off  at  pleasure.     Fondly  these  attach 
A  radical  causation  to  a  few 
Poor  drudges  of  chastising  Providence, 
Who  borrow  all  their  hues  and  qualities 
From  our  own  folly  and  rank  wickedness, 
Which  gave  them  birth  and  nursed  them.   Others,  meanwhile, 
Dote  -with  a  mad  idolatry  ;  and  all 
Who  will  not  fall  before  their  images,  . 
And  yield  them  worship,  they  are  enemies 
Even  of  their  country  ! 

Such  have  I  been  deemed — 
But,  O  dear  Britain  !  O  my  Mother  Isle  ! 
Needs  must  thou  prove  a  name  most  dear  and  holy 
To  me  a  son,  a  brother,  and  a  friend, 
A  husband,  and  a  father  !  who  revere 
All  bonds  of-  natural  love,  and  find  them  all 
Within  the  limits  of  thy  rocky  shores. 

0  native  Britain  !  O  my  Mother  Isle  ! 

How  shouldst  thou  prove  aught  else  but  dear  and  holy 

To  me,  who  from  thy  lakes  and  mountain-hills, 

Thy  clouds,  thy  quiet  dales,  thy  rocks  and  seas, 

Have  drunk  in  all  my  intellectual  life, 

All  sweet  sensations,  all  ennobling  thoughts, 

All  adoration  of  the  God  in  nature, 

All  lovely  and  all  honorable  things, 

Whatever  makes  this  mortal  spirit  feel 

The  joy  and  greatness  of  its  future  being  ? 

There  lives  nor  form  nor  feeling  in  my  soul 

Unborrowed  from  my  country.     O  divine 

And  beauteous  island  !  thou  hast  been  my  sole 

And  most  magnificent  temple,  in  the  which 

1  walk  with  awe,  and  sing  my  stately  songs, 
Loving  the  God  that  made  me ! 


« 44  C  OLERi'DGE  *S  POEMS. 

May  my  fears 

My  filial  fears,  be  vain  !  and  may  the  vaunts 
And  menace  of  the  vengeful  enemy 
Pass  like  the  gust,  that  roared  and  died  away 
In  the  distant  tree  :  which  heard,  and  only  heard, 
In  this  low  dell,  bowed  not  the  delicate  grass. 

But  now  the  gentle  dew-fall  sends  abroad 
The  fruit-like  perfume  of  the  golden  furze : 
The  light  has  left  the  summit  of  the  hill, 
Though  still  a  sunny  gleam  lies  beautiful, 
Aslant  the  ivied  beacon.     Now  farewell, 
Farewell,  awhile,  O  soft  and  silent  spot  8 
On  the  green  sheep-track,  up  the  heathy  hill, 
Homeward  I  wind  my  way  ;  and  lo  !  recalled 
From  bodin^s  that  have  well-nigh  wearied  me, 
I  find  myself  upon  the  brow,  arid  pause 
Startled  !     And  after  lonely  sojourning 
In  such  a  quiet  and  surrounded  nook, 
This  burst  of  prospect,  here  the  shadowy  main, 
Dim  tinted,  there  th.e  mighty  majesty 
Of  that  huge  amphitheatre  of  rich 
And  elmy  fields,  seems  like  society — 
Conversing  with  the  mind,  and  giving  it 
A  livelier  impulse  andi  a  dance  of  thought ! 
And  now,  beloved  Sto\\rey  !  I  behold 
Thy  church-tower,  and,  methinks,  the  four  huge  elms 
Clustering,  which  mark  the  mansion  of  my  friend  \ 
And  close  behind  them,  hidden  from  my  view, 
Is  my  own  lowly  cottage,  where  my  babe 
And  "my  babe's  mother  dwell  in  peace  !     With  light 
And  quickened  footsteps  thitherward  I  tend, 
Remembering  thee,  O  green  arid  silent  dell  1 
And  grateful,  that  by  nature's  quietness 
And  solitary  musings,  all  my  heart 
Is  softened,  and  made  worthy  to  indulge 
Love,  and  the  thoughts  that  yearn  for  humankind. 

Nether  Stowey, 
April  28th,  1796* 


SIB  YLLINE  LEA  VES.  1 45 


FIRE,  FAMINE,  AND  SLAUGHTER. 

A   WAR  ECLOGUE. 

The  Scene  a  desolate  Tract  in  la  Vendee.    FAMINE  is  discovered 
lying  on  the  ground  ;  to  her  enter  FIRE  and  SLAUGHTER. 

Fain.  SISTERS  !  sisters  !  who  sent  you  here  ? 

Slau.  [to  Fire.]  I  will  whisper  it  in  her  ear. 

Fire.  No  !  no  !  no ! 

Spirits  hear  what  spirits  tell : 
'Twill  make  a  holiday  in  Hell. 

No  !  no  !  no  ! 

Myself,  I  named  him  once  below, 
And  all  the  souls,  that  damned  be,  • 
Leaped  up  at  once  in  anarchy, 
Clapped  their  hands  and  danced  for  glee. 
They  no  longer  heeded  me, 
But  laughed  to  hear  Hell's  burning  rafters 
Unwillingly  re-echo  laughters ! 

No  !  no  !  no  ! 

Spirits  hear  what  spirits  tell : 
'Twill  make  a  holiday  in  Hell ! 

Fam.  Whisper  it,  sister  !  so  and  so  ! 
In  a  dark  hint,  soft  and  slow. 

Slau.  Letters  four  do  form  his  name — 
And  who  sent  you  ? 

Both.  The  same  !  the  same  ! 

Slau.  He  came  by  stealth,  and  unlocked  my  den, 
And  I  have  drunk  the  blood  since  then 
Of  thrice  three  hundred  thousand  men. 

Both.  Who  bade  you  do  it  ? 

Slau.  The  same  !  the  same  ! 

Letters  four  do  form  his  name. 
He  let  me  loose,  arid  cried  Halloo ! 
To  him  alone  the  praise  is  due. 

Fam.  Thanks,  sister,  thanks  !  the  men  have  bled. 
Their  wives  and  their  children  faint  for  bread. 
I  stood  in  a  swampy  field  of  battle  ; 
With  bones  and  skulls  I  made  a  rattle, 
To  frighten  the  wolf  and  carrion-crow 
And  the  homeless  dog — but  they  would  not  go. 
So  off  I  flew  :  for  how  could  I  bear 
To  see  them  gorge  their  dainty  fare  ? 
I  heard  a  groan  and  a  peevish  squall, 
And  through  the  chink  of  a  cottage-wall — 
Can  you  guess  what  I  saw  there  ? 


!  46  COLE  RID  GE  'S  POEMS. 

Both.  Whisper  it,  sister !  in  our  ear. 

Fain.  A  baby  beat  its  dying  mother  : 
I  had  starved  the  one  and  was  starving  the  other ! 

Both.  Who  bade  you  do't  ? 

Fain.  The  same  !  the  same  A 

Letters  four  do  form  his  name. 
He  let  me  loose,  and  cried  Halloo ! 
To  him  aione  the  praise  is  due. 

Fire.  Sisters  !  I  from  Ireland  came ! 
Hedge  and  corn-fields  all  on  flame, 
I  triumphed  o'er  the  setting  sun  ! 
And  all  the  while  the  work  was  done, 
On  as  I  strode  with  my  huge  strides, 
I  flung  back  my  head  and  I  held  my  sides, 
It  was  so  rare  a  piece  of  fun 
To  see  the  sweltered  cattle  run 
With  uncouth  gallop  through  the  night, 
Scared  by  the  red  and  noisy  light ! 
By  the  light  of  his  own  blazing  cot 
Was  many  a  naked  rebel  shot : 
The  house-stream  met  the  flame  and  hissed, 
While  crash  !  fell  in  the  roof,  I  wist, 
On  some  of  those  old  bed-rid  nurses, 
That  deal  in  discontent  and  curses. 

Both.  Who  bade  you  do't? 

Fire.  The  same  !  the 

Letters  four  do  form  his  name. 
He  let  me  loose,  and  cried  Halloo  1 
To  him  alone  the  praise  is  due. 

All.  He  let  us  loose,  arid  cried  Halloo ! 
How  shall  we  yield  him  honor  due  ? 

Fain.  Wisdom  comes  with  lack  of  food. 
I'll  gnaw,  I'll  gnaw  the  multitude, 
Till  the  cup  of  rage  o'erbrim  : 
They  shall  seize  him  arid  his  brood — 

&lau.  They  shall  tear  him  limb  from  iimbt 

Fire.  O  thankless  beldames  and  untrue! 
And  is  this  all  that  you  can  do 
For  him,  who  did  so  much  for  you  ? 
Ninety  months  he,  by  my  troth  ! 
Hath  richly"  catered  for  you  both  : 
And  in  an  hour  would  you  repay 
An  eight  years'  work  ? — Away  !  away  i 
I  alone  am  faithful  1  I 
Cling  to  him  everlastingly. 

1796 


II.    LOVE  POEMS. 


Quas  humilis  tenero  stylus  olim  effudit  in  sevo, 

Perlegis  hie  lacrymas,  et  quod  pharetratus  acuta 

Ille  puer  pureo  fecit  mihi  cuspide  vulnus. 

Omnia  paulatim  consumit  longior  aetas, 

Yivendoque  simul  inoiimur,  rapimurque  manendo. 

Ipse  mihi  collatus  euim  uon  ille  videbor: 

Frons  alia  est,  moreeque  alii,  nova  mentis  imago, 

Voxque  aliud  sonat — 

Pectore  mine  gelido  calidos  miseremur  amantes, 

Jamque  arsisse  pudet.     Veteres  tranquilla  tumultus 

Mens  horret,  relegensque  alium  putat  ista  locutum. — PETRARCH. 


LOVE. 

ALL  thoughts,  all  passions,   all 

delights, 
Whatever      stirs     this      mortal 

frame, 

All  are  but  ministers  of  Love, 
And  feed  his  sacred  flame. 

Oft  in  my  waking  dreams  do  I 
Live  o'er  again  that  happy  hour, 
When  midway  on  the  mount  I 

lay, 
Beside  the  ruined  tower. 

The  moonshine,  stealing  o'er  the 

scene, 
Had   blended  with  the  lights  of 

eve; 
And  she  was  there,  my  hope,  my 

j°y, 
My  own  dear  Genevieve  ! 

She  leaned   against  the   armed 

man, 

The  statue  of  the  armed  knight ; 
She  stood  and   listened   to   my 

lay, 
Amid  the  lingering  light. 

Few  sorrows  hath  she  of  her  own, 
My    hope!    my  joy!  my   Gene- 
vieve ! 


She  loves  me  best,  whene'er  1 

sing 

The     songs     that     make    her 
grieve. 

I  played  a  soft  and  doleful  air, 
I  sang  an  old  and  moving  story — 
An   old  rude  song,  that  suited 

well 
That  ruin  wild  and  hoary. 

She  listened  with  a  flitting  blush. 
With  downcast  eyes  and  modest 

grace ; 
For  well  she  knew,  I  could  not 

choose 
But  gaze  upon  her  face. 

I   told   her  of  the  Knight  that 

wore 

Upon  his  shield  a  burning  brandy 
And  that  for  ten  long  years  he 

wooed 
The  Lady  of  the  Land. 

I  told  her  how  he   pined :  and 

ah! 
The  deep,  the  low,  the  pleading 

tone 
With    which   I  sang    another's 

love, 
Interpreted  my  own. 


148 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


She  listened  with  a  flitting  blush, 
With  downcast  eyes,  and  modest 

grace  ; 

And  she  forgave  me,  that  I  gazed 
Too  fondly  on  her  face  ! 

But  when  I  told  the  cruel  scorn 
That  crazed  that  bold  and  lovely 

Knight, 

And  that  he  crossed  the  moun- 
tain-woods, 
Nor  rested  day  nor  night ; 

That  sometimes  from  the  savage 
den, 

And  sometimes  from  the  dark- 
some shade, 

And  sometimes  starting  up  at 

once 
In  green  and  sunny  glade, — 

There  came  and  looked  him  in 

the  face 

An  angel  beautiful  and  bright : 
And  that  he  knew  it  was  a  Fiend, 
This  miserable  K night ! 

And  that,  unknowing  what  he 

did, 
He    leaped    amid  a  murderous 

band, 
And  saved  from  outrage  worse 

than  death 
The  Lady  of  the  Land  ;— 

And  how  she  wept,  and  clasped 

his  knees ; 
And  how  she    tended    him    in 

vain — 

And  ever  strove  to  expiate 
The    scorn    that    crazed     his 

brain  ; — 

And   that  she  nursed  him  in  a 


cave; 
And    how 


his    madness     went 


away, 

When  on  the  yellow  forest-leaves 
A  dying  man  he  lay  j — 


His   dying   words — but    when  '. 

reached 
That  tenderest  strain  of  all  ths 

ditty, 
My  faltering  voice  and  pausing 

harp 
Disturbed  her  soul  with  pity  1 

All  impulses  of  soul  and  sense 
Had  thrilled  my  guileless  Gene- 

vieve  ; 

The  music  and  the  doleful  tale, 
The  rich  and  balmy  eve  ; 

And  hopes,  and  fears  that  kin- 
dle hope, 

An  undistinguishable  throng, 
Arid  gentle  wishes  long  siabdued, 
Subdued  and  cherished  long ! 

She  wept  with  pity  and  delight, 
She  blushed  with  love,  and  vir- 
gin shame  ; 
And    like    the    murmur    of    a 

dream, 
I  heard  her  breathe  my  name. 

Her  bosom  heaved — she  stepped 

aside, 
As   conscious   of    my  look    she 

stept — 
Then  suddenly,   with   timorous 

eye, 
She  fled  to  me  and  wept. 

She  half  inclosed  me  with  her 

arms, 
She    pressed    me   with   a    meek 

embrace  ] 
And    bending   back    her  head, 

looked  up, 
And  gazed  upon  my  face. 

'Twas   partly 
fear, 


love,   and   partly 


And  partly  'twas  a  bashful  art, 
That  I  might   rather 

see, 
The  swelling  of  h?i 


LOVE  POEMS 


I  calmed  her  fears,  and  she  was 

calm, 
And  told  her  love  with   virgin 

pride  ; 

And  so  I  won  my  Genevieve, 
My     bright     and     beauteous 

Bride. 


THE    BALLAD     OF     THE 
K  LADIE. 


A 

BENEATH  yon  birch  with  silver 

bark. 
And  boughs  so  pendulous  and 

fair, 
The  brook  falls  scattered  down 

the  rock  : 
.  Ynd  all  is  mossy  there  ! 

And  there   upon  the  moos  she 

sits, 

The  Dark  Ladie  in  silent  pain  ; 
The  heavy  tear  is  in  her  eye, 
And  drops  and  swells  again. 

Three  times  she  sends  her  little 

page 
Up      the     castled      mountain's 

breast, 
if  he  might  find  the  Knight  that 

wears 
The  Griffin  for  his  crest. 

The  sun  was  sloping  down  the 

sky, 
And  she  had  lingered  there  all 

day, 
Counting     moments,    dreaming 

fears — 
O  wherefore  can  he  stay  ? 

She  hears   a   rustling    o'er   the 

brook. 
She    sees    far    off    a    swinging 

boagh  1 


'  'Tis   He  I      'Tis    my    betrothed 

Knight ! 
Lord  Falkland,  it  is  Thou  I ' 

She    springs,     she     clasps    him 

round  the  neck, 
She  sobs  a  thousand  hopes  and 

fears, 

Her  kisses  glowing  on  bis  cheeks 
She  quenches  with  her  tears. 


'  My  friends  with  rude  ungentle 

words 
They  scoff  and   bid  me   fly   to 

thee! 

0  give  me  shelter  in  thy  breast ! 
6  shield  and  shelter  me  ! 

'  My  Henry,  I  have  given  thee 
much, 

1  gave  what  I  can  ne'er  recall, 

I    gave    my  heart,   I  gave   my 

peace, 
O  Heaven  !  I  gave  thee  all.' 

The  Knight  made  ansver  to  the 

Maid, 
While  to  his  heart  he  held  her 

hand, 
e  Nine  castles  hath    my    noble 

sire, 
None  statelier  in  the  land. 

'The    fairest    one  shall   be  my 

love's, 

The  fairest  castle  of  the  nine  ! 
Wait  only  till  the  stars  peep  cut, 
The  fairest  shall  be  thine  : 

'  Wait  only  till  the  hand  of  eve 
Hath  wholly  closed  yon  western 

bars, 
And   through  the  dark  we  too 

will  steal 
Beneath  the  twinkling  stars ! ' 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMb. 


'The  dark?    the    dark  i      No  I 

not  the  dark  ? 
The     twinkling    stars?      Hew, 

Henry  ?  How  ? 

O  God !  'twas  in  the  eye  of  noon 
He  pledged  his  sacred  vow ! 

'And  in   the  eye   of  noon,  my 

.ove 
Shall  lead  me  from  my  mother's 

dcor, 
Sweet  boys  and  girls  all  clothed 

in  white 
Strewing  flowers  before : 

*  But  first  the  nodding  minstrels 

go 
With    music    meet    for    lordly 

bowers, 
The  children  next  in  snow-white 

vests, 
Strewing  buds  and  flowers  ! 

•  And  then  my  love  and  I  shall 

pace, 
My    jet-black    hair    in    pearly 

braids, 

Between  our  comely  bachelors 
And  blushing  bridal  maids.' 


LEWTI, 

OR    THE    CIRCASSIAN    LOVE- 
CHAUNT. 

AT   midnight   by   the   stream  I 

roved, 

To  forget  the  form  I  loved, 
linage  of  Lewti !   from  my  mind 
Depart ;  for  Lewti  is  not  kind. 
The  moon  was  high,  the  moon- 
light gleam 

And  the  shadow  of  a  star 
Heaved  upon  Tamaha's  stream  ; 
But  the  rock  shone  brighter 
far, 


The  rock  half-sheltered  from  my 

view 
By    pendent    boughs   of    tressy 

yew  — 
So  shines  my  Lewti's  forehead 

fair, 
Gleaming    through    her    sable 

hair. 

Image  of  Lewti  !  from  my  mind 
Depart  ;  for  Lewti  is  not  kind. 
I  saw  a,  cloud  of  palest  hue, 

Onward  to  the  moon  it  passed  ; 
Still  brighter  and  more  bright  it 

grew, 

With  floating  colors  not  a  few, 
Till   it  reached   the  moon  at 

last: 
Then    the     cloud    was    wholly 

bright, 

With  a  rich  and  amber  light  ! 
And  so  with  many  a  hope  I  seek, 
And  with  such  joy  I  find  my 

Lewti  ; 

And  even  so  my  pale  wan  cheek 
Drinks  in  as  deep  a  flush  of 

beauty  ! 
Nay  !  treacherous  image  !  leave 

my  mind, 
If  Lewti  never  will  be  kind. 

The  little  cloud  —  it  floats  away, 
Away  it  goes  ;  away  so  soon  ? 
Alas  !  it  has  no  power  to  stay  : 
Its  hues  are   diii^  its  hues  are 


gray- 

Away  it  passes  from  the  moon  ! 
How  mournfully  it  seems  to  fly, 
Ever  fading  more  and  more, 
To  joyless  region?  of  the  sky  — 
And    now    'tis    whiter    than 

before  ! 
As  white  as  my  poor  cheek  wilJ 

be, 
When,  Lewti  !  on  my  couch  I 

lie, 
A  dying  man  for  love  of  theeu 


LOVE  POEMS. 


15* 


Nay,  treacherous  image !  leave 

iny  mind — 
And  yet,   thou  didst  not  look 

unkind. 

I  saw  a  vapor  in  the  sky, 
Thin,  and   white,    and    very 

high: 

i  ne'er  beheld  so  thin  a  cloud  : 
Perhaps  the  breezes  that  can 

fly, 

Now  below  and  now  above, 
Rave  snatched  aloft  the  lawny 

shroud 
Of  Lady    fair— that  died    for 

love. 
For  maids,   as  well  as  youths, 

have  perished 
From  fruitless  love  too  fondly 

cherished  „ 
Nay,  treacherous  miage  I   leave 

my  mind — 
For  Lewti  never  will  be  kind. 

Hush !    my  heedless    feet    from 

under 

Slip  the  crumbling  banks  for- 
ever : 

Like  echoes  to  a  distant  thunder, 
They  plunge  into  the  gentle 

river. 
The  river-swans  have  heard  my 

tread, 

And  startle  from  their  reedy  bed. 
O  beauteous  birds  !  methinks  ye 

measure 
Your     movements    to     some 

heavenly  tune  I 
O  beauteous  birds !    'tis  such  a 

pleasure 


To  see  you  move  beneath  the 
moon, 

I  would  it  were  your  true  de- 
light 

To  sleep  by  day  and  wake  all 
night. 

I  know  the  place  where  Lewti 

lies, 
When  silent  night  has  closed  her 

eyes  ; 

It  is  a  breezy  jasmine-bower, 
The   nightingale  sings   o'er  her 

head  : 
Voice  of  the  night !  had  I  the 

power 

That  leafy  labyrinth  to  thread, 
And  creep,  like  thee,  with  sound- 
less tread, 
I  then   might   view  her  bosom 

white, 

Heaving  lovely  to  my  sight, 
As    these    two    swans   together 

heave 
On  the  gently  swelling  wave. 

Oh  !  that  she  saw  me  in  a  dream, 
And  dreamt  that  I  had  died 

for  care  ; 
All   pale    and   wasted   I   would 

seem, 

Yet  fair  withal,  as  spirits  are  ! 
I'd  die  indeed,  if  I  might  see 
Her  bosom  heave,  and  heave  for 

me  ! 
Soothe,    gentle    image !    soothe 

my  mind ! 

To-morrow  Lewti  may  be  kind. 
1795. 


i 52  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

THE  PICTURE, 
OR  THE  LOVER'S  RESOLUTION. 

THROUGH  weeds,  and  thorns,  and  matted  underwood, 
I  force  my  way  ;  now  climb,  and  now  descend 
O'er  rocks,  or  bare  or  mossy,  with  wild  foot 
Crushing  the  purple  whorts  ;  while,  oft  unseen, 
Hurrying  along  the  drifted  forest-leaves, 
The  scared  snake  rustles.     Onward  still  I  toil 
I  know  not,  ask  not  whither  !     A  new  joy, 
Lovely  as  light,  sudden  as  summer  gust, 
And  gladsome  as  the  first-born  of  the  spring, 
Beckons  me  on,  or  follows  from  behind, 
Playmate,  or  guide  !     The  master-passion  quelled, 
I  feel  that  I  am  free.     With  dun-red  bark 
The  fir-trees,  and  the  unfrequent  slender  oak, 
Forth  from  this  tangle  wild  of  bush  and  brake 
Soar  up,  and  from  a  melancholy  vault 
High  o'er  me,  murmuring  like  a  distant  sea. 

Here  Wisdom  might  resort,  and  here  Remorse ; 

Here  too  the  love-lorn  man,  who,  sick  in  soul, 

And  of  this  busy  human  heart  aweary, 

Worships  the  spirit  of  unconscious  life 

In  tree  or  wild-flower. — Gentle  lunatic ! 

If  so  he  might  not  wholly  cease  to  be, 

He  would  far  rather  not  be  that,  he  is; 

But  would  be  something,  that  he  knows  not  of, 

In  winds  or  waters,  or  among  the  rocks  I 

But  hence,  fond  wretch  !  breathe  not  contagion 
No  myrtle- walks  are  these  :  these  are  no  groves 
Where  Love  dare  loiter  I     If  in  sullen  mood 
He  should  stray  hither,  the  low  stumps  shall  gore 
His  dainty  feet,  the  briar  and  the  thorn 
Makes  his  plumes  haggard.     Like  a  wounded  bird 
Easily  caught,  ensnares  him,  O  ye  Nymphs, 
Ye  Oreads  chaste,  ye  dusky  Dryades  I 
And  you,  ye  earth-winds  !  you  that  make  at  morn, 
The  dew-drops  quiver  on  the  spiders'  webs  1 
You,  O  ye  wingless  Airs !  that  creep  between 
The  rigid  stems  of  heath  and  bitten  furze, 
Within  whose  scanty  shade,  at  summer  noon, 
The  mother-sheep  hath  worn  a  hollow  bed — 
Ye,  that  now  cool  her  fleece  with  dropless  damp, 


LOVE  POEMS.  153 


Now  pant  and  murmur  with  her  feeding  lamb. 

Chase,  chase  him,  all  ye  Fays,  and  elfin  Gnomes ! 

With  prickles  sharper  than  his  darts  beinock 

His  litde  Godship,  making  him  perforce 

Cr?ep  through  a  thorn  bush  on  yon  hedgehog's  back. 

This  is  my  hour  of  triumph  I     I  can  now 
With  my  own  fancies  play  the  merry  fool, 
And  laugh  away  worse  folly,  being  free. 
Here  will  I  seat  myself,  beside  this  old, 
Hollow,  and  weedy  oak,  which  ivy-twine 
Clothes  as  with  net- work  :  here  will  I  couch  my  limbs, 
Close  by  this  river,  in  this  silent  shade, 
As  safe  and  sacred  from  the  step  of  man 
As  an  invisible  world — unheard,  unseen, 
And  listening  only  to  the  pebbly  brook 
That  murmurs  with  a  dead,  yet  tinkling  sound  ; 
Or  to  the  bees,  that  in  the  neighboring  trunk 
Make  honey-hoards.     The  breeze  that  visits  me 
Was  never  Love's  accomplice,  never  raised 
The  tendril  ringlets  from  the  maiden's  brow, 
And  the  blue,  delicate  veins  above  her  cheek  ; 
Ne'er  played  the  wanton — never  half-disclosed 
The  maiden's  snowy  bosom,  scattering  thence 
Eye-poisons  for  some  love-distempered  youth, 
Who  ne'er  henceforth  may  see  an  asperi-grove 
Shiver  in  sunshine,  but  his  feeble  heart 
Shall  flow  away  like  a  dissolving  thing. 

Sweet  breeze !  thou  only,  if  I  guess  aright, 
Liftest  the  feathers  of  the  robin's  breast, 
That  swells  its  little  breast,  so  full  of  song 
Singing  above  me,  on  the  mountain-ash. 
Arid  thou  too,  desert  stream  !  no  pool  of  thine, 
Though  clear  as  lake,  in  latest  summer-eve, 
Did  e'er  reflect  the  stately  virgin's  robe, 
The  face,  the  form  divine,  the  downcast  look 
Contemplative  !     Behold  !  her  open  palm 
Presses  her  cheek  and  brow  !   her  elbow  rests 
On  the  bare  branch  of  half  up-rooted  tree, 
That  leans  towards  its  mirror !     Who  erewhile 
Had  from  her  countenance  turned,  or  looked  by  stealth 
(For  fear  is  true  love's  cruel  nurse),  he  now, 
With  steadfast  gaze  and  unoffending  eye, 
Worships  the  watery  idol,  dreaming  hopes 
Delicious  to  the  soul,  but  fleeting,  vain, 


'54  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

E'en  as  that  phantom  world  on  which  he  gazed, 
But  not  unheeded  gazed  :  for  see,  ah  !  see, 
The  sportive  tyrant  with  her  left  hand  plucks 
The  heads  of  tall  flowers  that  behind  her  grow, 
Lychnis,  and  willow-herb,  and  foxglove  bells : 
And  suddenly,  as  one  that  toys  with  time, 
Scatters  them  on  the  pool !     Then  all  the  charm 
Is  broken — all  that  phantom- world  so  fair 
Vanishes,  and  a  thousand  circlets  spread, 
And  ea^h  mis-shape  the  other.     Stay  awhile, 
Poor  youth,  who  scarcely  dar'st  lift  up  thine  eyes, 
The  stream  will  soon  renew  its  smoothness,  soon 
The  visions  will  return  !     And  lo  !  he  stays  : 
And  soon  the  fragments  dim  of  lovely  forms 
Come  trembling  back,  unite,  and  now  once  more 
The  pool  becomes  a  mirror ;  and  behold 
Each  wild-flower  on  the  marge  inverted  there, 
And  there  the  half-uprooted  tree — but  where, 
O  where  the  virgin's  snowy  arm,  that  leaned 
On  its  bare  branch  ?     He  turns,  and  she  is  gone  ! 
Homeward  she  steals  through  many  a  woodland 
Which  he  shall  seek  in  vain.     Ill-fated  youth  ! 
Go,  day  by  day,  and  waste  thy  manly  prime 
In  mad  love-yearning  by  the  vacant  brook, 
Till  sickly  thoughts  bewitch  thine  eyes,  and  thou 
Behold'st  her  shadow  still  abiding  there, 
The  Naiad  of  the  mirror  1 

Not  to  thee> 

0  wild  and  desert  stream  !  belongs  this  tale : 
Gloomy  arid  dark  art  thou — the  crowded  firs 
Spire  from  thy  shores,  and  stretch  across  thy  bed, 
Making  thee  doleful  as  a  cavern- well : 

Save  v/hen  the  shy  king-fishers  build  their  nest 

On  thy  steep  banks,  no  loves  hast  thou,  wild  stream  I 

This  be  my  chosen  haunt — emancipate 
.tfrom  passion's  dreams,  a  freeman,  and  alone, 

1  rise  and  trace  its  devious  course.     O  lead, 
Lead  me  to  deeper  shades  arid  lonelier  glooms. 
Lo  I  stealing  through  the  canopy  of  firs, 
How  fair  the  sunshine  spots  that  mossy  rock, 
Isle  of  the  river,  whose  disparted  waves 
Dart  off  asunder  with  an  angry  sound, 

How  soon  to  re-unite  !     Arid  see  !  they  meet, 
Each  in  the  other  lost  and  found  :  and  see 
Plaoeless,  as  spirits,  one  soft- water  sun 


LOVE  POEMS.  155 


Throbbing  within  them,  heart  at  once  and  eye  ! 

With  its  soft  neighborhood  of  filmy  clouds, 

The  stains  and  shadings  of  forgotten  tears, 

Dimness  o'ers'wum  with  lustre  !     Such  the  hour 

Of  deep  enjoyment,  following  love's  brief  feuds  j 

And  hark,  the  noise  of  a  near  waterfall  ! 

I  pass  forth  into  light— I  find  myself 

Beneath  a  weeping  birch  (most  beautiful 

Of  forest-trees,  the  lady  of  the  woods), 

Hard  by  the  brink  of  a  tall  weedy  rock 

That  overbrows  the  cataraqt.     How  bursts 

The  landscape  on  my  sight !     Two  crescent  hills 

Fold  in  behind  each  other,  and  so  make 

A  circular  vale,  and  land-locked,  as  might  seem, 

With  brook  and  bridge,  and  gray  stone  cottages, 

Half  hid  by  rocks  and  fruit-trees.     At  my  feet, 

The  whortle-berries  are  bedewed  with  spray, 

Dashed  upwards  by  the  furiou3  waterfall. 

How  solemnly  the  pendent  ivy-irass 

Swings  in  its  winnow  ;  all  the  air  is  calm. 

The  smoke  from  cottage  chimneys,  tinged  with  light, 

Rises  in  columns  ;  from  this  house  alone, 

Close  by  the  waterfall,  the  column  slants, 

And  feels  its  ceaseless  breeze.     But  what  is  this  ? 

That  cottage,  with  its  slanting  chimney-smoke, 

And  close  besid'e  its  porch  a  sleeping  child, 

His  dear  head  pillowed  on  a  sleeping  dog — 

One  arm  between  its  forelegs,  and  the  hand 

Holds  loosely  its  small  handful  of  wild  flowers, . 

Unfilletted,  and  of  unequal  lengths. 

A  curious  picture,  with  a  master's  haste 

Sketched  on  a  strip  of  pinky-silver  skin, 

Peeled  from  the  birchen  bark !     Divinest  maid  ! 

Yon  bark  her  canvas,  and  those  purple  berries 

Her  pencil !     See,  the  juice  is  scarcely  dried 

On  the  fine  skin  !     She  has  been  newly  here  ; 

Arid  lo  !  yon  patch  of  heath  has  been  her  couch— 

The  pressure  still  remains  !     O  blessed  couch  ! 

For  this  mayst  thou  flower  early,  and  the  sun, 

Slanting  at  eve,  rest  bright,  and  linger  long 

Upon  thy  purple  bells  !     O  Isabel ! 

Daughter  of  genius  !  stateliest  of  our  maids  ! 

More  beautiful  than  whom  Alcaeus  wooed, 

The  Lesbian  woman  of  immortal  songl 

O  child  of  genius  !  stately,  beautiful, 

And  full  of  love  to  all,  save  only  me, 


1 5  6  COLE  RID  G&S  POEMS. 

% 

And  not  ungentle  e'en  to  me  !     My  heart, 

Why  beats  it  thus  ?     Through  yonder  coppice- wood 

Needs  must  the  pathway  turn,  that  leads  straightway 

On  to  her  father's  house.     She  is  alone ! 

The  night  draws  on — such  ways  are  hard  to  hit — 

And  fit  it  is  1  should  restore  this  sketch, 

Dropt  unawares  no  dovbt.     Why  should  I  yearn 

To  keep  the  relique  ?  'twill  but  idly  feed 

The  passion  that  consumes  me.     Let  me  haste  ! 

The  picture  in  my  hand  which  she  has  left ; 

She  cannot  blame  me  that  I  followed  her : 

And  I  may  be  her  guide  the  long  wood  through. 


THE  MGHT-SCENE: 

A   DRAMATIC   FRAGMENT. 

Sandoval.  You  loved  the  daughter  of  Don  Manrique  ? 

Earl  Henry.  Loved  \ 

Sandoval.  Did  you  not  say  you  wooed  her  ? 

Earl  Henry.  «Once  I  ioved 

Her  whom  I  dared  not  woo  ! 

Sandoval.  And  wooed,  perchance, 

One  whom  you  loved  not ! 

Earl  Henry.  Oh  !  I  were  most  base. 

Not  loving  Oropeza.     True,  I  wooed  her, 
Hoping  to  heal  a  deeper  wound  :  but  she 
Met  my  advances  with  impassioned  pride, 
That  kindled  love  with  love.     And  when  her  sire, 
Who  in  his  dream  of  hope  already  grasped 
The  golden  circlet  in  his  hand,  rejected 
My  suit  with  insult,  and  in  memory 
Of  ancient  feuds  poured  curses  on  my  head, 
Her  blessings  overtook  and  baffled  them  ! 
But  thou  art  stern,  and  with  unkindly  countenance 
Art  inly  reasoning  whilst  thou  listenest  to  me. 

Sandoval.  Anxiously,  Henry  !  reasoning  anxiously, 
But  Oropeza — 

Earl  Henry.  Blessings  gather  round  her  ! 
Within  this  wood  there  winds  a  secret  passage, 
Beneath  the  walls,  which  opens  out  at  length 
Into  the  gloomiest  covert  of  the  garden. — 


LOVE  POEMS.  157 


The  night  ere  my  departure  to  the  army, 

She,  nothing  trembling,  led  me  through  that  gloouv 

Arid  to  that  covert  by  a  silent  stream, 

Which,  with  one  star  reflected  near  its  marge, 

Was  the  sole  object  visible  around  me. 

No  leaflet  stirred  ;  the  air  was  almost  sultry  ; 

So  deep,  so  dark,  so  close,  the  umbrage  o'er  us  ! 

No  leaflet  stirred  ;-*>yet  pleasure  hung  upon 

The  gloom  and  stillness  of  the  balmy  night-air. 

A  little  further  on  an  arbor  stood, 

Fragrant  with  flowering  trees — I  well  remember 

What  an  uncertain  glimmer  in  the  darkness 

Their  snow-white  blossoms  made — thither  she  led  me, 

To  that  sweet  bower  !     Then  Oropeza  trembled — 

I  heard  her  heart  beat — if  'twere  not  my  own. 

tSandoval.  A  rude  and  scaring  note,  my  friend ! 

Earl  Henry.  Oh!  not 

i  have  small  memory  of  aught  but  pleasure. 
The  inquietudes  of  fear,  like  lesser  streams, 
Still  flowing,  still  were  lost  in  those  of  love : 
So  love  grew  mightier  from  the  fear,  and  Nature, 
Fleeing  from  pain,  sheltered  herself  in  joy. 
The  stars  above  our  heads  were  dim  and  steady, 
Like  eyes  suffused  with  rapture. — Life  was  in  us  : 
We  were  all  life,  each  atom  of  our  frames 
A  living  soul — I  vowed  to  die  for  her : 
With  the  faint  voice  of  one  who,  having  spoken, 
Relapses  into  blessedness,  I  vowed  it : 
That  solemn  vow,  a  whisper  scarcely  heard, 
A  murmur  breathed  against  a  lady's  ear. 
Oh  !  there  is  joy  above  the  name  of  pleasure, 
Beep  self-possession,  an  intense  repose. 

Sandoval  [with  a  sarcastic  smile].   No  other  than  a&  eastern 

sages  paint 

The  God,  who  floats  upon  a  lotos  leaf, 
Dreams  for  a  thousand  ages  ;  then  awaking, 
Creates  a  world,  and  smiling  at  the  bubble, 
Relapses  into  bliss. 

Earl  Henry.  Ah  !  was  that  bliss       » 

Feared  as  an  alien,  and  too  vast  for  man? 
For  suddenly,  impatient  of  its  silence, 
Did  Oropeza,  starting,  grasp  my  forehead. 
I  caught  her  arms  ;  the  veins  were  swelling  on  them. 
Through  the  dark  bower  she  sent  a  hollow  voice  ;— 
'Oh  !  what  if  all  betray  me  ?  what  if  thou  ?  ' 
I  swore,  and  with  an  inward  thought  that  seemed 


1 5  8  COLE  RID  GE'S  POEMS. 

The  purpose  and  the  substance  of  my  being, 
I  swore  to  her,  that  were  she  red  with  guilt, 
I  would  exchange  my  unblenched  state  with  hers. — 
Friend  !  by  that  winding  passage,  to  that  bower 
I  now  will  go — all  objects  there  will  teach  me 
Unwavering  love,  and  singleness  of  heart. 
Go,  Sandoval !     I  am  prepared  to  meet  her — 
Say  nothing  of  me — I  myself  will  seek  her — 
Nay,  leave  me,  friend  !  I  cannot  bear  the  torment 
And  keen  inquiry  of  that  scanning  eye. — 

[Earl  Henry  retires  into  the  wood, 

Sandoval  [alone].  O  Henry!  always  striv'st  thou  to  be  great 
By  thine  own  act — yet  art  thou  never  great 
But  by  the  inspiration  of  great  passion. 
The  whirl-blast  comes,  the  desert-sands  rise  up 
And  shape  themselves  :  from  earth  to  heaven  they  stand, 
As  though  they  were  the  pillars  of  a  temple, 
Built  by  Omnipotence  in  its  own  honor  ! 
But  the  blast  pauses,  and  their  shaping  spirit 
Is  fled  :  the  mighty  columns  were  but  sand, 
And  lazy  snakes  tread  o'er  the  level  ruins  1 


TO  AN  UNFORTUNATE  WOMAN  AT  THE  THEATRE 

MAIDEN,  that  with  sullen  brow 

Sitt'st  behind  those  virgins  gay, 
Like  a  scorched  arid  mildewed  bough 

Leafless  'mid  the  blooms  of  May  1 

Him  who  lured  thee  and  forsook, 

Oft  I  watched  with  angry  gaze, 
Fearful  saw  his  pleading  look, 

Anxious  heard  his  fervid  phrase. 

Soft  the  glances  of  the  youth, 

Soft  his  speech,  and  soft  his  sigh  j 

But  no  sound  like  simple  truth, 
But  no  true  love  in  his  eye. 

Loathing-  thy  polluted  lot, 

Hie  thee,  Maiden,  hie  thee  henoe 
Seek  thy  weeping  Mother's  cot, 

With  a  wiser  innocence. 


LOVE  POEMS:-  159 


Thou  hast  kno\vn  deceit  and  folly, 
Thou  hast  felt  that  vice  is  woe  j 

With  a  musing  melancholy 
Inly  armed,  go,  Maiden  !  go. 

Mother  sage  of  self-dominion, 
Firm  thy  steps,  O  Melancholy ! 

The  strongest  plume  in  wisdom's  pinion 
Is  the  memory  of  past  folly. 

Mute  the  sky-lark  and  forlorn, 

While  she  moults  the  firstling  plumes, 

That  had  skimmed  the  tender  corn, 
Or  the  beanfield's  odorous  blooms. 

Soon  with  renovated  wing 
Shall  she  dare  a  loftier  flight, 

Upward  to  the  day-star  spring, 
And  eiubathe  in  heavenly  light. 


LINES  COMPOSED  IN  A  CONCERT-ROOM. 

NOR  cold,  nor  stern,  my  soul !  yet  I  detest 

These  scented  rooms,  where  to  a  gaudy  throng, 

Heaves  the  proud  harlot  her  distended  breast 
In  intricacies  of  laborious  song. 

These  feel  not  Music's  genuine  power,  nor  deign 
To  melt  at  Nature's  passion-warbled  plaint ; 

But  when  the  long-breathed  singer's  uptrilled  strain 
Bursts  in  a  squall — they  gape  for  wonderment. 

Hark  !  the  deep  buzz  of  vanity  and  hate  ! 

Scornful,  yet  envious,  with  self-torturing  sneer 
My  lady  eyes  some  maid  of  humbler  state, 

While  the  pert  captain,  or  the  primmer  priest, 

Prattles  accordant  scandal  in  her  ear. 

O  give  me,  from  this  heartless  scene  released, 
To  hear  our  old  musician,  blind  and  gray, 

(Whom  stretching  from  my  nurse's  arms  I  kissed,) 
His  Scottish  tunes  and  warlike  marches  play, 

By  moonshine,  on  the  balmy  summer-night, 
The  while  I  dance  amid  the  tedded  hay 

With  merry  maids,  whose  ringlets  toss  in  light. 


160  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

Or  lies  the  purple  evening  on  the  bay 
Of  the  calm  glossy  lake,  O  let  me  hide 

Unheard,  unseen,  behind  the  alder-trees, 
For  round  their  roots  the  fisher's  boat  is  tied, 

On  whose  trim  seat  doth  Edmund  stretch  at  ease, 
And  while  the  lazy  boat  sways  to  and  fro, 

Breathes  in  his  flute  sad  airs,  so  wild  and  slow, 
That  his  own  cheek  is  wet  with  quiet  tears. 

But  O,  dear  Anne  !  when  midnight  wind  careers, 
Arid  the  gust  pelting  on  the  out-house  shed 

Makes  the  cock  shrilly  on  the  rain-storm  crow, 

To  hear  thee  sing  some  ballad  full  of  woe, 
Ballad  of  ship- wrecked  sailor  floating  dead, 

Whom  his  own  true-love  buried  in  the  sands! 
Thee,  gentle  woman,  for  thy  voice  re-nieasures 
Whatever  tones  and  melancholy  pleasures 

The  things  of  Nature  utter  ;   birds  or  trees 
Or  moan  of  ocean-gale  in  weedy  caves, 
Or  where  the  stiff  grass  mid  the  heath-plant  waves, 

Murmur  and  music  thin  of  sudden  breeze. 


THE  KEEPSAKE. 

THE  tedded  hay,  the  first-fruits  of  the  soil, 

The  tedded  hay  and  corn-sheaves  in  one  field, 

Show  summer  gone,  ere  come.     The  foxglove  tall 

Sheds  its  loose  purple  bells,  or  in  the  gust, 

Or  when  it  bends  beneath  the  up-springing  lark, 

Or  mountain-finch  alighting.     And  the  rose 

(In  vain  the  darling  of  successful  love) 

Stands,  like  some  boasted  beauty  of  past  years, 

The  thorns  remaining,  and  the  flowers  all  gone. 

Nor  can  I  find,  amid  my  lonely  walk 

By  rivulet,  or  spring,  or  wet  road-side, 

That  blue  and  bright-eyed  floweret  of  the  brook, 

Hope's  gentle  gem,  the  sweet  Forget-me-not!* 

So  will  not  fade  the  flowers  which  Emmeline 

With  delicate  fingers  on  the  snow-white  silk 

Has  worked,  (the  flowers  which  most  she  knew  I  loved,) 

And,  more  beloved  than  they,  her  auburn  hair. 


*  One  of  the  names  (and  meriting  to  be  the  only  one)  of  the  Myosotis  Scorpioides 
Palustris,  a  flower  from  six  to  twelve  inches  high,  with  blue  blossom  and  bright  yel- 
low eye.  It  has  the  !-aine  name  over  the  whole  Empire  of  Germany  ( Vergissmein 
nickt),  and,  I  believe,  in  Denmark  and  Sweden. 


LOVE  POEMS. 


In  the  cool  morning  twilight,  early  waked 
By  her  full  bosom's  joyous  restlessness, 
Softly  she  rose,  and  lightly  stole  along, 
Down  the  slope  coppice  to  the  woodbine  bower, 
Whose  rich  flowers,  swinging  in  the  morning  breeze* 
Over  their  dim  fast-moving  shadows  hung, 
Making  a  quiet  image  of  disquiet 
In  the  smooth,  scarcely  moving  river-pool. 
There,  in  that  bower  where  first  she  owned  her  love, 
And  let  me  kiss  mv  own  warm  tear  of  joy 
From  off  her  glowing  cheek,  she  sate  and  stretched 
The  silk  upon  the  frame,  and  worked  her  name 
Between  the  Moss-Rose  and  Forget-me-not — 
Her  own  dear  name,  with  her  own  auburn  hair ! 
That  forced  to  wander  till  sweet  spring  return, 
I  yet  might  ne'er  forget  her  smile,  her  look, 
Her  voice,  (that  even  in  her  mirthful  mood 
Has  made  me  wish  to  steal  away  and  weep,) 
Nor  yet  the  enhancement  of  that  maiden  kiss 
With  which  she  promised,  that  when  spring  returned. 
She  would  resign  one  half  of  that  dear  name, 
And  own  thenceforth  no  other  name  but  mine  I 


TO  A  LADY, 

WITH  FALCONER'S  '  SHIPWRECK.' 

R I  not  by  Cam  or  Isis,  famous  streams 
in  arched  groves,  the  youthful  poet's  choice; 
Nor  while  half-listening,  mid  delicious  dreams, 
To  harp  and  song  from  lady's  hand  and  voice  ; 

Nor  yet  while  gazing  in  sublimer  mood 

On  cliff,  or  cataract,  in  Alpine  dell ; 
Nor  in  dim  cave  with  bladdery  sea- weed  strewed, 

Framing  wild  fancies  to  the  ocean's  swell ; 

Our  sea-bard  sang  this  song !  which  still  he  sings, 
And  sings  for  thee,  sweet  friend  !  Hark,  Pity,  hark  f 

NOW  mounts,  now  totters  on  the  tempest's  wings, 
Now  groans,  and  shivers,  the  replunging  bark ! 


1 6  2  COLE  RID  GE'S  POEMS. 

'  Cling  to  the  shrouds  !  ' .  In  vain  !     The  breakers  roar — 
Death  shrieks  !     With  two  alone  of  all  his  clan 

Forlorn  the  poet  paced  the  Grecian  shore, 
No  classic  roamer,  but  a  ship-wrecked  man  ! 

Say  then,  what  muse  inspired  these  genial  strains 

And  lit  his  spirit  to  so  bright  a  flame  ? 
The  elevating  thought  of  suffered  pains, 

Which  gentle  hearts  shall  mourn ;  but  chief,  the  name 

Of  gratitude  !  remembrances  of  friend, 
Or  absent  or  no  more !  shades  of  the  Past, 

Which  Loves  makes  substance  !    Hence  to  thee  I  send, 
O  dear  as  long  as  life  arid  memory  last ! 

I  send  with  deep  regards  of  heart  and  head, 

Sweet  maid,  for  friendship  formed !  this  work  to  theft! 

And  thou,  the  while  thou  canst  not  choose  but  shed 
A  tear  for  Falconer,  wilt  remember  me. 


TO  A  YOUNG  LADY. 

ON  HER  RECOVERY  FROM  A  FEVER. 

WHY  need  I  say.  Louisa  dear ! 
How  glad  I  am  to  see  you  here, 

A  lovely  convalescent ; 
Risen  from  the  bed  of  pain  and  fear, 

And  feverish  heat  incessant. 

The  sunny  showers,  the  dappled  sky, 
The  little  birds  that  warble  high, 

Their  vernal  loves  commencing, 
Will  better  welcome  you  than  I 

With  their  sweet  influencing. 

Believe  me,  while  in  bed  you  lay, 
Your  danger  taught  us  all  to  pray  : 

You  made  us  grow  devouter ! 
Each  eye  looked  up  and  seemed  to  8B!j 

How  can  we  do  without  her  ? 


LOVE  POEMS,  163 


Besides,  what  vexed  us  worse,  we  knew. 
They  have  no  need  of  such  as  you 

In  the  place  where  you  were  going : 
This  World  has  angels  all  too  few, 

And  Heaven  is  overflowing  1 


SOMETHING   CHILDISH,   BUT  VERY  NATURAL 

WRITTEN   IN   GERMANY. 

IP  I  had  but  two  little  wings, 
And  were  a  little  feathery  bird, 

To  you  I'd  fly,  my  dear ! 
But  thoughts  like  these  are  idle  things, 
And  I  stay  here. 

But  in  my  sleep  to  you  I  fly  : 

I'm  always  with  you  in  my  sleep  I 

The  world  is  all  one's  own. 
But  then  one  wakes,  and  where  am  I  ? 
All,  all  alone. 

Sleep  stays  not,  though  a  monarch  bids, 
So  I  love  to  wake  ere  break  of  day  : 

For  though  my  sleep  be  gone, 
Yet  while  'tis  dark,  one  shuts  one's  lids, 
And  still  dreams  on. 


HOME-SICK. 

WRITTEN   IN   GERMANY. 

'Tis  sweet  to  him  who  all  the  week 
Through  city-crowds  must  push  his  way, 

To  stroll  alone  through  fields  and  woods, 
And  hallow  thus  the  Sabbath-day. 

And  sweet  it  is,  in  summer  bower, 
Sincere,  affectionate,  and  gay, 

One's  own  dear  children  feasting  round 
To  celebrate  one's  marriage-day. 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


But  what  is  all,  to  his  delight, 

Who  having  long  been  doomed  to  roam, 
Throws  off  the  bundle  from  his  back, 

Before  the  door  of  his  own  home  ? 

Hoine-siekness  is  a  wasting  pang  ; 

This  feel  I  hourly  .more  and  more: 
There's  healing  only  in  thy  wings, 

Thou  Breeze  that  play'st  on  Albion's  shore  I 


ANSWER  TO  A  CHILD'S  QUESTION. 

Do  you  ask  what  the  birds  say  ?    The  sparrow,  the  dove, 

The  linnet,  and  thrush,  say,  '  I  love  and  I  love  ! ' 

In  the  winter  they're  silent — the  wind  is  so  strong. 

What  it  says  I  don't  know,  but  it  sings  a  loud  song. 

But  green  leaves,  and  blossoms,  and  sunny  warm  weather, 

And  singing,  and  loving — all  come  back  together. 

But  the  lark  is  so  brimful  of  gladness  and  love, 

The  green  fields  below  him,  the  blue  sky  above, 

That  he  sings,  and  he  sings  ;  and  forever  sings  he — 

'  I  love  my  Love,  and  my  Love  loves  me  1 ' 


A  CHILD'S  EVENING  PRAYER. 

ERE  on  my  bed  my  limbs  I  lay, 
God  grant  me  grace  my  prayers  to  say  : 
O  God  !  preserve  my  mother  dear 
In  strength  and  health  for  many  a  year  ; 
And,  O  !  preserve  my  father  too, 
And  many  I  pay  him  reverence  due  ; 
And  may  I  my  best  thoughts  employ 
To  be  my  parents'  hope  and  joy ; 
And,  O !  preserve  my  brothers  both 
From  evil  doings  and  from  sloth, 
And  may  we  always  love  each  other, 
Our  friends,  our  father,  and  our  mothtr, 
And  still,  O  Lord,  to  me  impart 
An  innocent  and  grateful  heart, 
That  after  my  last  steep  I  may 
Awake  to  thy  eternal  day  !     Amen. 


LOVE  PGF.MS.  165 


THE  VISIONARY  HOPE. 

SAD  lot,  to  have  no  hope !     Though  lowly  kneeling 

He  fain  would  frame  a  prayer  within  his  breast, 

Would  fain  entreat  for  some  sweet  breath  of  healing, 

That  his  sick  body  might  have  ease  and  rest ; 

He  strove  in  vain  !  the  dull  sighs  from  his  chest 

Against  his  will  the  stifling  load  revealing, 

Though  Nature  forced  ;  though  liko  some  captive  guatf 

Some  royal  prisoner  at  his  conqueror's  feast, 

An  alien's  restless  mood  but  half  concealing, 

The  sternness  on  his  gentle  brow  confessed, 

Sickness  within  and  miserable  feeling  ; 

Though  obscure  pangs  made  curses  of  his  dreams, 

And  dreaded  sleep,  each  night  repelled  in  vain, 

Each  night  was  scattered  by  its  own  loud  screams  : 

Yet  never  could  his  heart  command,  though  fain, 

One  deep  full  wish  to  be  no  more  in  pain. 

That  Hope,  which  was  his  inward  bliss  and  boast, 
Which  waned  and  died,  yet  ever  near  him  stood, 
Though  changed  in  nature,  wander  where  he  would— 
For  Love's  despair  is  but  Hope's  pining  ghost ! 
For  this  one  hope  he  makes  his  hourly  moan, 
He  wishes  and  can  wish  for  this  alone  ! 
Pierced,  as  with  light  from  Heaven,  before  its  gleaimJ 
(So  the  love-stricken  visionary  deems) 
Disease  would  vanish,  like  a  summer  shower, 
Whose  dews  fling  sunshine  from  the  noon-tide  bower * 
Or  let  it  stay  !  yet  this  one  Hope  should  give 
Such  strength  that  he  would  bless  his  pains  and  live 


THE  HAPP1    HUSBAND. 

OFT,  oft  methinks,  the  while  with  Thee 
I  breathe,  as  from  the  heart,  thy  dear 
And  dedicated  name,  I  hear 

A  promise  and  a  mystery, 

A  pledge  of  more  than  passing  life, 
Yea,  in  that  very  name  of  Wife  ! 

A  pulse  of  love,  that  ne'^r  can  sleep! 
A  feeling  that  upbraids  the  heart 
With  happiness  beyond  desert, 

That  gladness  half  requests  to  weep  I 


1 66  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

Nor  bless  I  not  the  keener  sense 
And  unalarming  turbulence 

Of  transient  joys,  that  ask  no  sting 
From  jealous  fears,  or  coy  denying  ; 
But  born  beneath  Love's  brooding  wing, 

And  into  tenderness  soon  dying, 

Wheel  out  their  giddy  moment,  then 
Resign  the  soul  to  love  again  ;— 

A  more  precipitated  vein 
Of  notes,  that  eddy  in  the  flow 
Of  smoothest  song,  they  come,  they  go, 

And  leave  their  sweeter  understrain 
Its  own  sweet  self — a  love  of  Thee 
That  seems,  yet  cannot  greater  be  I 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  LOVE. 

i. 

How  warm  this  woodland  wild  Recess  i 
Love  surely  hath  been  breathing  here; 
And  this  sweet  bed  of  heath,  iriy  dear  \ 
Swells  up,  then  sinks  with  faint  caress, 
As  if  to  have  you  yet  more  near. 

ii. 

Eight  springs  have  flown,  since  last  I  lay 
On  sea- ward  Quantock's  heathy  hills, 
Where  quiet  sounds  from  hidden  rills 

Float  here  and  there,  like  things  astray, 
And  high  o'erhead  the  sky-lark  shrills. 

in. 

Ko  voice  as  yet  had  made  the  air 
Be  music  with  your  name ;  yet  why 
That  asking  look  ?    that  yearning  sigh  I 

That  sense  of  promise  everywhere  ? 
Beloved  I  flew  your  spirit  by  ? 

JV. 

As  when  a  mother  doth  explore 

The  rose-mark  on  her  long-lost  child, 
I  met,  i  loved  you,  maiden  mild  I 
As  whom  I  long  have  loved  before— 
.  So  deeply  had  I  been  beguiled. 


LOVE  POEMS.  167 

V. 

You  stood  before  me  like  a  thought, 

A  dream  remembered  in  a  dream. 

But  when  those  meek  eyes  first  did  seem 
To  tell  me,  Love  within  you  wrought — 

O  Greta,  dear  domestic  stream  ! 

VI. 

Has  not.  since  then,  Love's  prompture  deep, 

Has  not  Love's  whisper  evermore 

Been  ceaseless,  as  thy  gentle  roar? 
Sole  voice,  when  other  voices  sleep, 

Dear  under-song  in  clamor's  hour. 


ON  REVISITING  THE  SEA-SHORE, 

AFTER  LONG  ABSENCE,    UNDER   STRONG   MEDICAL 
RECOMMENDATION   NOT  TO  BATHE. 

GOD  be  with  thee,  gladsome  Ocean  ! 

How  gladly  greet  I  thee  once  more ! 
Ships  and  waves,  and  ceaseless  motion, 

And  men  rejoicing  on  thy  shore. 

Dissuading  spake  the  mild  physician, 
'  Those  briny  waves  for  thee  are  death  I ' 

But  my  soul  fulfilled  her  mission, 

And  lo  !  I  breathe  untroubled  breath  ! 

Fashion's  pining  sons  arid  daughters, 
That  seek  the  crowd  they  seem  to  fly, 

Trembling  they  approach  thy  waters  ; 
And  what  cares  Nature,  if  they  die  ? 

Me  a  thousand  hopes  and  pleasures, 

A  thousand  recollections  bland, 
Thoughts  sublime,  and  stately  measures, 

Revisit  on  thy  echoing  strand : 

Dreams  (the  soul  herself  forsaking), 

Tearful  raptures,  boyish  mirth  ; 
Silent  adorations,  making 

A  blessed  shadow  of  this  Earth ! 

O  ye  hopes,  that  stir  within  me, 

Health  comes  with  you  from  above  1 

God  is  with  me,  God  is  in  me  ! 
I  cannot  die,  if  Life  be  Love. 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


III.  MEDITATIVE  POEMS. 


IIV   BLANK   VERSE. 

YEA,  he  deserves  to  fhid  himself  deceived, 
Who  seeks  a  Heart  in  the  unthinking  Man. 
Like  shadows  on  a  stream,  the  forms  of  life 
Impress  their  characters  on  the  smooth  forehead 
Naught  sinks  into  the  bosom's  silent  depth. 
Quick  sensibility  of  pain  and  pleasure 
Moves  the  light  fluids  lightly  ;  but  no  soul 
Warmeth  the  inner  frame. — SCHILLER. 


HYMN, 

BEFORE  SUN-RISE,  IN  THE  VALE  OF  CHAMOUNI. 

BESIDES  the  rivers  Arve  and  Arvei;on,  which  have  their  sources  in  the  foot  of 
Mont  Blanc,  live  conspicuous  torrents  rush  down  its  sides  ;  and  within  a  few  paces  of 
the  Glaciers,  the  Gentiana  Major  grows  in  immense  numbers  with  its  '  flowers  of  love- 
liest blue.' 

HAST  thou  a  charm  to  stay  the  morning-star 
In  his  steep  course  ?    So  long  he  seems  to  pause 
On  thy  bald  awful  head,  O  sovran  Blanc  ! 
The  Arve  and  Arveirori  at  thy  base 
Rave  ceaselessly  ;  but  thou,  most  awful  Form  I 
Risest  from  forth  thy  silent  sea  of  pines, 
How  silently  !     Around  thee  and  above 
Deep  is  the  air  and  dark,  substantial,  black, 
An  ebon  mass  :  methinks  thou  piercest  it, 
As  with  a  wedge  !     But  when  I  look  again, 
It  is  thine  own  calm  home,  thy  crystal  shrine, 
Thy  habitation  from  eternity  ! 

0  dread  arid  silent  Mount!     I  gazed  upon  thee, 
Till  thou,  still  present  to  the  bodily  sense, 

Didst  vanish  from  my  thought :  entranced  in  prayer 

1  worshipped  the  Invisible  alone. 

Yet,  like  some  sweet  beguiling  melody, 
So  sweet,  we  know  not  we  are  listening  to  it, 
Thou,  the  meanwhile,  wast  blending  with  my  thought, 
Yea,  with  my  life  arid  life's  own  secret  joy  : 
Till  the  dilating  Soul,  enrapt,  transfused, 
Into  the  mighty  vision  passing — there 
As  in  her  natural  form,  swelled  vast  to  Heaven  I 


MEDITA  TIVE  POEMS.  1 69 


Awake,  my  soul !  not  only  passive  praise 
Thou  owest !  not  alone  these  swelling  tears, 
Mute  thanks  and  secret  ecstasy  !     Awake, 
Voice  of  sweet  song  !     Awake,  my  heart,  awake , 
Green  vales  and  icy  cliffs,  all  join  my  Hymn. 

Thou  first  and  chief,  sole  sovran  of  the  Vale  ! 
O  struggling  with  the  darkness  all  the  night, 
And  visited  all  night  by  troops  of  stars, 
Or  when  they  climb  the  sky  or  when  they  sink : 
Companion  of  the  morning-star  at  dawn, 
Thyself  Earth's  rosy  star,  arid  of  the  dawn 
Co-herald  :  wake,  O  wake,  and  utter  praise!  • 
Who  sank  thy  sunless  pillars  deep  in  Earth  ? 
Who  filled  thy  countenance  with  rosy  light  ? 
Who  made  thee  parent  of  perpetual  streams  ? 

And  you,  ye  five  wild  torrents  fiercely  glad  ! 
Who  called  you  forth  from  night  and  utter  death, 
From  dark  and  icy  caverns  called  you  forth, 
Down  those  precipitous,  black,  jagged  Rocks, 
Forever  shattered  and  the  same  forever  ? 
Who  gave  you  your  invulnerable  life, 
Your  strength,  your  speed,  your  fury,  and  your  joy, 
Unceasing  thunder  and  eternal  foam  ? 
And  who  commanded  (and  the  silence  came), 
Here  let  the  billows  stiffen,  and  have  rest  ? 

Ye  ice-falls  !  ye  that  from  the  mountain's  brow 
A  down  enormous  ravines  slope  amain — 
Torrents,  methinks,  that  heard  a  mighty  voice, 
And  stopped  at  once  amid  their  maddest  plunge ! 
Motionless  torrents  !  silent  cataracts  ! 
Who  made  you  glorious  as  the  gates  of  Heaven 
Beneath  the  keen  full  moon  ?     Who  bade  the  sun 
Clothe  you  with  rainbows  ?     Who,  with  living  flowe' 
Of  loveliest  blue,  spread  garlands  at  your  feet  ?— 
God  !  let  the  torrents,  like  a  shout  of  nations, 
Answer  !  and  let  the  ice-plains  echo,  God ! 
God  !  sing  ye  meadow-streams  with  gladsome  voice ! 
Ye  pine-groves,  with  your  soft  and  soul-like  sounds ! 
And  they  too  have  a  voice,  yon  piles  of  snow, 
And  in  their  perilous  fall  shall  thunder,  God  ! 

Ye  living  flowers  that  skirt  the  eternal  frost  I 
Ye  wild  goats  sporting  round  the  eagle's  nest  I 


1 70  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

Ye  eagles,  play-mates  of  the  mountain-storm  I 
Ye  lightnings,  the  dread  arrows  of  the  clouds  ! 
Ye  signs  and  wonders  of  the  element ! 
Utter  forth  God,  and  fill  the  hills  with  praise  ! 

Thou  too,  hoar  Mount !  with  thy  sky-pointing  peaks, 
Oft  from  whose  feet  the  avalanche,  unheard, 
Shoots  downward,  glittering  through  the  pure  serene 
Into  the  depth  of  clouds  that  veil  thy  breast — 
Thou  too  again,  stupendous  Mountain  !  thou 
That  as  I  raise  my  head,  awhile  bowed  low 
In  adoration,  upward  from  thy  base 
Slow  travelling  with  dim  eyes  suffused  with  tears, 
Solemnly  seemest,  like  a  vapory  cloud, 
To  rise  before  me — Rise.  O  ever  rise, 
Rise  like  a  cloud  of  incense,  from  the  Earth ! 
Thou  kingly  Spirit  throned  among  the  hills, 
Thou  dread  ambassador  from  Earth  to  Heaven, 
Great  hierarch  !  tell  thou  the  silent  sky, 
And  tell  the  stars,  and  tell  yon  rising  sun, 
Earth,  with  her  thousand  voices,  praises  God. 


LINES 

WRITTEN     IN     THE     ALBUM     AT     ELBINGERODE,    IN    THE    HARTZ 

FOREST. 

I  STOOD  on  Brocken's  *  sovran  height,  and  saw 
Woods  crowding  upon  woods,  hills  over  hills, 
A  surging  scene,  and  only  limited 
By  the  blue  distance.     Heavily  my  way 
Downward  I  dragged  through  fir  groves  evermore, 
Where  bright  green  moss  heaves  in  sepulchral  forms 
'  Speckled  with  sunshine  ;  and,  but  seldom  heard, 
The  sweet  bird's  song  became  a  hollow  sound ; 
And  the  breeze,  murmuring  indivisibly, 
Preserved  its  solemn  murmur  most  distinct 
From  many  a  note  of  many  a  waterfall, 
And  the  brook's  chatter  ;  'mid  whose  islet  stones 
The  dingy  kindling  with  its  tinkling  bell 
Leaped  frolicsome,  or  old  romantic  goat 


*  The  highest  mountain  in  the  Hart/.,  and  indeed  in  North  Germany. 


MEDITATIVE  POEMS.  171 

Sat,  his  white  beard  slow  waving.     I  moved  on 

In  low  and  languid  mood  :  *  for  I  had  found 

That  outward  forms,  the  loftiest,  still  receive 

Their  finer  influence  from  the  Life  within  ; 

Fair  cyphers  else  :  fair,  but  of  import  vague 

Or  unconcerning,  where  the  heart  not  finds 

History  or  prophecy  of  friend,  or  child, 

Or  gentle  maid,  our  first  arid  early  love, 

Or  father,  or  the  venerable  name 

Of  our  adored  country  !     O  thou  Queen, 

Thou  delegated  Deity  of  Earth, 

O  dear,  dear  England  !  how  my  longing  eye 

Turned  westward,  shaping  in  the  steady  clouds 

Thy  sands  and  high  white  cliffs  ! 

My  native  Land ! 

Filled  with  the  thought  of  thee  this  heart  was  proud, 
Yea,  mine  eye  swam  with  tears  :  that  all  the  view 
From  sovran  Brocken,  woods  and  woody  hills, 
Floated  away,  like  a  departing  dream, 
Feeble  and  dim  !     Stranger,  these  impulses 
Blame  thou  not  lightly  j  nor  will  I  profane, 
With  hasty  judgment  or  injurious  doubt, 
That  man's  sublimer  spirit,  who  can  feel 
That  God  is  everywhere  !  the  God  who  framed 
Mankind  to  be  one  mighty  family, 
Himself  our  Father,  and  the  World  our  Home. 


INSCRIPTION 

FOR  A   FOUNTAIN  ON  A   HEATH. 

THIS  Sycamore,  oft  musical  with  bees, — 

Such  tents  the  Patriarchs  loved  !     O  long  unharmed 

May  all  its  aged  boughs  o'er-canopy 

The  small  round  basin,  which  this  jutting  stone 


When  I  have  gazed 

From  some  high  eminence  on  goodly  vales 

And  cots  and  villages  embowered  helow, 

The  thought  would  rise  that  all  to  me  was  strange 

Amid  the  scenes  so  lair,  nor  one  small  spot 

Where  my  tired  mind  might  rest,  and  call  it  home. 

Southey's  Hymn  to  the  Penates. 


1 7  2  COLERIDGE  '61  POEMS. 

Keeps  pure  from  falling  leaves !     Long  may  the  {Spring, 

Quietly  as  a  sleeping  infant's  breath, 

Send  up  cold  waters  to  the  traveller 

With  soft  and  even  pulse  !      Nor  ever  cease 

Yon  tiny  cone  of  sand  its  soundless  dance, 

Which  at  the  bottom,  like  a  Fairy's  page, 

As  merry  and  no  taller,  dances  still, 

Nor  wrinkles  the  smooth  surface  of  the  Fount. 

Here  twilight  is  and  coolness :  here  is  moss, 

A  soft  seat,  arid  a  deep  and  ample  shade. 

Thou  may'st  toil  far  and  find  no  second  tree: 

Drink,  Pilgrim,  here  ;  here  rest !  and  if  thy  heart 

Be  innocent,  here  too  shalt  thou  refresh 

Thy  Spirit,  listening  to  some  gentle  s^und, 

Or  passing  gale  or  hum  of  murmuring  bees  I 


A  TOMBLESS  EPITAPH. 

'Tis  true,  Idoloclastes  Satyrane  ! 

(So  call  him,  for  so  mingling  blame  with  praise, 

And  smiles  with  anxious  looks,  his  earliest  friends, 

Masking  his  birth-name,  wont  to  character 

His  wild- wood  fancy  arid  impetuous  zeal,) 

'Tis  true  that,  passonate  for  ancient  truths, 

And  honoring  with  ireligious  love  the  great 

Of  elder  times,  he  hated  to  excess, 

With  an  unquiet  and  intolerant  scorn, 

The  hollow  puppets  of  a  hollow  age, 

Ever  idolatrous,  and  changing  ever 

Its  worthless  idols  !  learning,  power,  and  time 

(Too  much  of  all)  thus  wasting  in  vain  war 

Of  fervid  colloquy.     Sickness,  'tis  true, 

Whole  years  of  weary  days,  besieged  him  close> 

Even  to  the  gates  and  inlets  of  his  life  ! 

But  it  is  true,  no  less,  that  strenuous,  firm. 

Arid-  with  a  natural  gladness,  he  maintained 

The  citadel  unconquered,  and  in  joy 

Was  strong  to  follow  the  delightful  Muse. 

For  not  a  hidden  path,  that  to  the  shades 

Of  the  beloved  Parnassian  forest  leads, 

Lurked  undiscovered  by  him  ;  not  a  rill 

There  issues  from  the  fount  of  Hippocrene, 


MEDITATIVE  POEMS.  173 

But  he  had  traced  it  upward  to  its  source, 
Through  open  glade,  dark  glen,  and  secret  dell, 
Knew  the  gay  wild-flowers  on  its  banks,  and  culled 
Its  med'cinable  herbs.     Yea,  oft  alone, 
Piercing  the  long-neglected  holy  cave, 
The  haunt  obscure  of  old  Philosophy, 
He  bade  with  lifted  torch  its  starry  walls 
Sparkle,  as  erst  they  sparkled  to  the  flame 
Of  odorous  lamps  tended  by  Saint  and  Sage. 
O  framed  for  calmer  times  and  nobler  hearts ! 
0  studious  Poet,  eloquent  for  truth ! 
Philosopher  !  contemning  wealth  and  death, 
Yet  docile,  childlike,  full  of  Life  and  Love  ! 
Here,  rather  than  on  monumental  stone, 
This  record  of  thy  worth  thy  Friend  inscribes, 
Thoughtful,  with  quiet  tears  upon  his  che^k. 


THIS  LIMS-TREE  BOWER  MY  PRISON. 

IN  the  June  of  1797,  some  long-expected  Friends  paid  a  visit  to  the  author's  cottage  ; 
and  on  the  morning  of  their  arrival,  he  met  with  an  accident,  which  disabled  him  from 
walking  during  the  whole  time  of  their  stay.  One  evening,  when  they  had  left  him 
for  a  few  hours,  ho  composed  the  following  lines  in  the  garden-bower. 

WELL,  they  are  gone,  and  here  must  I  remain, 

This  lime-tree  bower  my  prison  !     I  have  lost 

Beauties  and  feelings  such  as  would  have  been 

Most  sweet  to  my  remembrance  even  when  age 

Had  dimmed  mine  eyes  to  blindness  !     They,  meanwhile. 

Friends,  whom  I  never  more  may  meet  again, 

On  springy  heath,  along  the  hillrtop  edge, 

Wander  in  gladness,  arid  wind  down,  perchance, 

To  that  still  roaring  dell,  of  which  I  told  ; 

The  roaring  dell,  o'er- wooded,  narrow,  deep, 

And  only  speckled  by  the  mid-day  sun  ; 

Where  its  slim  trunk  the  ash  from  rock  to  rock 

Flings  arching  like  a  bridge  ;— that  branchless  ash, 

Unsunned  and  damp,  whose  few  poor  yellow  leaves 

Ne'er  tremble  in  the  gale,  yet  tremble  still, 

Fanned  by  the  water-fall !  and  there  my  friends 

Behold  the  dark  green  file  of  long  lank  weeds,* 


*  Oj  long  lank  weeds.]  The  asplenium  scolopendriuui,  called  in  some  countries  the 
Adder's  Tongue,  in  others  the  Hart's  Tongue  :  but  Withering  gives  the  Adder's  Tongue 
as  Uie  trivial  name  of  the  ophioglossum  onlj. 


1 7  4  COLE  RID  GE  *S  POEMS. 

That  all  at  once  (a  most  fantastic  sight !) 
Still  nod  and  drip  beneath  the  dripping  edge 
Of  the  blue  clay-stone. 

Now,  my  friends  emerge 

Beneath  the  wide,  wide  Heaven — and  view  again 
The  many-steepled  tract  magnificent 
Of  hilly  fields  and  meadows,  and  the  sea, 
With  some  fair  bark,  perhaps,  whose  sails  light  up 
The  slip  of  smooth  clear  blue  betwixt  two  Isles 
Of  purple  shadow  !     Yes  !  they  wander  on 
In  gladness  all  \  but  th.ou,  methinks,  most  glad, 
My  gentle-hearted  Charles !  for  thou  hast  pined 
And  hungered  after  Nature,  many  'v  year, 
In  the  great  City  pent,  winning  th>    .ray 
With  sad  yet  patient  soul,  through  evil  arid  pain 
And  strange  calamity  !     Ah  !  slowly  sink 
Behind  the  western  ridge,  thou  glorious  sun  ! 
Shine  in  the  slant  beams  of  the  sinking  orb, 
Ye  purple  heath-flowers  !  richlier  burn,  ye  clouds  I 
Live  in  the  yellow  light,  ye  distant  groves  ! 
And  kindle,  thou  blue  Ocean  !     So  my  Friend 
Struck  with  deep  joy  may  stand,  as  I  have  stood, 
Silent  with  swimming  sense  j  yea,  gazing  round 
On  the  wide  landscape,  gaze  till  all  doth  seem 
Less  gross  than  bodily  ;  arid  of  such  hues 
As  veil  the  Almighty  Spirit,  when  yet  he  makes 
Spirits  perceive  his  presence. 

A  delight 

Comes  sudden  on  my  heart,  and  I  am  glad 
As  I  myself  were  there  !     Nor  in  this  bower, 
This  little  lime-tree  bower,  have  I  not  marked 
Much  that  has  soothed  me.     Pale  beneath  the  blaze 
Hung  the  transparent  foliage  ;  and  I  watched 
Some  broad  arid  sunny  leaf,  and  loved  to  see 
The  shadow  of  the  leaf  and  stem  above 
Dappling  its  sunshine  !     And  that  walnut-tree 
Was  richly  tinged,  and  a  deep  radiance  lay 
Full  on  the  ancient  ivy,  which  usurps 
Those  fronting  elms,  and  now,  with  blackest  mass 
Makes  their  dark  branches  gleam  a  lighter  hue 
Through  the  late  twilight :  arid  though  now  the  bat 
Wheels  silent  by,  and  riot  a  swallow  twitters, 
Yet  still  the  solitary  humble-bee 
Sings  in  the  bean-flower  !     Henceforth  I  shall  know 
That  Nature  ne'er  deserts  the  wise  and  pure  ; 


MEDITA  TIVE  POEMS.  1 7  $ 

No  plot  so  narrow,  be  but  Nature  there, 
No  waste  so  vacant,  but  may  well  employ 
Each  faculty  of  sense,  and  keep  the  heart 
Awake  to  Love  and  Beauty  !  and  sometime* 
'Tis  well  to  be  bereft  of  promised  good, 
That  we  may  lift  the  Soul,  arid  contemplate 
With  lively  joy  the  joys  we  cannot  share. 
My  gentle-hearted  Charles !  when  the  last  rook 
Beat  its  straight  path  along  the  dusky  air 
Homewards,  I  blest  it !  deeming,  its  black  wing 
(Now  a  dim  speck,  now  vanishing  in  light) 
Had  crossed  the  mighty  orb's  dilated  glory, 
While  thou  stood'st  gazing  ;  or  when  all  was  still, 
Flew  creeking*  o'er  thy  head,  and  had  a  charm 
For  thee,  my  gentle-hearted  Charles,  to  whom 
No  sound  is  dissonant  which  tells  of  Life. 


TO  A  FRIEND 

WHO  HAD  DECLARED   HIS    INTENTION  OF  WRITING  NO   MORE 

POETRY. 

DEAR  Charles !  whilst  yet  thou  wert  a  babe,  I  ween 

That  Genius  plunged  thee  in  that  wizard  fount 

High  Castalie  :  and  (sureties  of  thy  faith) 

That  Pity  and  Simplicity  stood  by. 

And  promised  for  thee  that  thou  shouldst  renounce 

The  world's  low  cares  and  lying  vanities, 

Steadfast  and  rooted  in  the  heavenly  Muse, 

And  washed  and  sanctified  to  Poesy. 

Yes — thou  wert  plunged  but  with  forgetful  hand 

Held,  as  by  Thetis  erst  her  warrior  son  : 

And  with  those  recreant  unbaptized  heels 

Thou'rt  flying  from  thy  bounden  minist'ries — 

So  sore  it  seems  and  burthensome  a  task 

To  weave  unwithering  flowers  !     But  take  thou  heed : 

For  thou  art  vulnerable,  wild-eyed  boy, 


*  Flew  creekinrj.]  Some  months  after  I  had  written  this  line,  it  gave  me  pleasure 
to  find  that  Bartram  had  observed  the  same  circumstance  of  the  Savanna  Crane. 
4  When  these  birds  move  their  wings  in  (light,  their  strokes  are  slow,  moderate,  and 
regular  ;  and  even  when  at  a  considerable  distance  or  high  above  us,  we  plainly  hear 
the  quill  feathers  ;  their  shafts  and  webs  upon  one  another  creek  as  the  joints  or  work* 
ing  of  a  vessel  in  a  tempestuous  sea. 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


Arid  I  have  arrows  *  mystically  dipt, 

Such  as  may  stop  thy  speed.     Is  thy  Burns  dead  ? 

And  shall  he  die  unwept,  and  sink  to  earth 

4  Without  the  meed  of  one  melodious  tear  ?  ' 

Thy  Burns,  and  Nature's  own  beloved  bard, 

Who  to  the  '  Illustrious  f  of  his  native  Land, 

So  properly  did  look  for  patronage.' 

Ghost  of  Maecenas  !  hide  thy  blushing  face  ! 

They  snatched  him  from  the  sickle  and  the  plough— 

To  gauge  ale-firkins. 

Oh  !  for  shame  return  ! 

On  a  bleak  rock,  midway  the  Aonian  mount, 
There  stands  a  lone  and  melancholy  tree, 
Whose  aged  branches  to  the  midnight  blast 
Make  solemn  music  :  pluck  its  darkest  bough, 
Ere  yet  the  .unwholesome  night-dew  be  exhaled, 
And  weeping  wreath  it  round  thy  Poet's  tomb. 
Then  in  the  outskirts,  where  pollutions  grow, 
Pick  the  rank  henbane  and  the  dusky  flowers 
Of  night-shade,  or  its  red  and  tempting  fruit, 
These  with  stopped  nostril  and  glove-guarded  hand 
Knit  in  nice  intertexture,  so  to  twine, 
The  illustrious  brow  of  Scotch  Nobility. 


TO  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 

COMPOSED   ON   THE   NIGHT   AFTER   HIS   RECITATION   OF  A   POEM 
ON   THE   GROWTH    OF  AN   INDIVIDUAL   MIND. 

FRIEND  of  the  wise !  and  teacher  of  the  good  ! 

Into  my  heart  have  I  received  that  lay 

More  than  historic,  that  prophetic  lay 

Wherein  (high  theme  by  thee  first  sung  aright) 

Of  the  foundations  and  the  building  up 

Of  a  human  spirit  thou  hast   dared  to  tell 

What  may  be  told,  to  the    understanding  mind 

Revealable  ;  and  what  within  the  mind 

By  vita)  breathings  secret  as  the  soul 

Of  vernal  growth,  oft  quickens  in  the  heart 

Thoughts  all  too  deep  for  words  ! — 

*Pind.Olyini>.  ii.  i.  150. 

t  Verbatim  from  Burns'  dedication  of  his  poem  to  the  Nobility  and  Gentry  of  the 
Caledonian  Hunt. 


MEDITATIVE  POEMS.  177 


Theme  hard  as  high, 

Of  smiles  spontaneous,  and  mysterious  fears 
(The  first-born  they  of  Reason  and  twin-birth), 
Of  tides  obedient  to  external  force. 
And  currents  self-determined,  as  might  seem, 
Or  by  some  inner  power ;  of  moments  awful, 
Now  in  thy  inner  life,  and  now  abroad, 
When  power  streamed  from  thee,  and  thy  soul  received 
The  light  reflected,  as  a  light  bestowed — 
Of  fancies  fair,  and  milder  hours  of  youth, 
Hyblean  murmurs  of  poetic  thought 
Industrious  in  its  joy,  in  vales  and  glens, 
Native  or  outland,  lakes  arid  famous  hills! 
Or  on  the  lonely  high-road,  when  the  stars 
Were  rising  ;  or  by  secret  mountain-streams, 
The  guides  arid  the  companions  of  thy  way  I 

Of  more  than  Fancy,  of  the  Social  Sense 
Distending  wide,  and  man  beloved  as  man, 
Where  France  in  all  her  towns  lay  vibrating 
Like  some  becalmed  bark  beneath  the  burst 
Of  Heaven's  immediate  thunder,  when  no  cloud 
Is  visible,  or  shadow  on  the  main, 
For  thou  wert  there,  thine  own  brows  garlanded* 
Amid  the  tremor  of  a  realm  aglow, 
Amid  a  mighty  nation  jubilant, 
When  from  the  general  heart  of  humankind 
Hope  sprang  forth  like  a  full-born  Deity  ! 

Of  that  dear  Hope  afflicted  and  struck  down, 

So  summoned  homeward,  thenceforth  calm  and  sure 

From  the  dread  watch-tower  of  man's  absolute  self, 

With  light  unwaning  on  her  eyes,  to  look 

Far  on — herself  a  glory  to  behold, 

The  Angel  of  the  vision  !     Then  (last  strain) 

Of  Duty,  chosen  laws  controlling  choice, 

Action  and  joy  !— And  Orphic  song  indeed, 

A  song  divine  of  high  and  passionate  thoughts 

To  their  own  music  chanted  ! 

O  great  Bard ! 

Ere  yet  that  last  strain  dying  awed  the  air, 
With  steadfast  eye  I  viewed  thee  in  the  choir 
Of  ever-enduring  men.     The  truly  great 
Have  all  one  age,  and  from  one  visible  space 
Shed  influence  !     They,  both  in  power  and  act, 
Are  permanent,  and  Time  is  not  with  them, 
Save  as  it  worketh  for  them,  they  in  it. 
12 


178  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

Nor  less  a  sacred  roll,  than  those  of  old, 

And  to  be  placed,  as  they,  with  gradual  fame 

Among  the  archives  of  mankind,  thy  work 

Makes  audible  a  linked  lay  of  Truth, 

Of  Truth  profound  a  sweet  continuous  lay, 

Not  learnt,  but  native,  her  own  natural  notes  ! 

Ah  !  as  I  listened,  with  a  heart  forlorn, 

The  pulses  of  my  being  beat  anew  : 

And  even  as  life  returns  upon  the  drowned, 

Life's  joy  rekindling  roused  a  throng  of  pains — 

Keen  pangs  of  Love,  awakening  as  a  babe 

turbulent,  with  an  outcry  in  the  heart ; 

And  fears  self-willed,  that  shunned  the  eye  of  hope  ; 

And  hope  that  scarce  would  know  itself  from  fear  ; 

Sense  of  past  youth,  and  manhood  come  in  vain, 

And  genius  given,  and  knowledge  won  in  vain ; 

And  all  which  I  had  culled  in  wood-walks  wild, 

And  all  which  patient  toil  had  reared,  and  all, 

Commune  with  thee  had  opened  out — but  flowers 

Strewed  on  my  corse,  and  borne  upon  my  bier, 

In  the  same  coffin,  for  the  self-same  grave  ! 

That  way  no  more  !  and  ill  beseems  it  me, 
Who  came  a  welcomer  in  herald's  guise, 
Singing  of  glory,  and  futurity, 
To  wander  back  on  such  unhealthful  road, 
Plucking  the  poisons  of  self-harm  !     And  ill 
Such  intertwine  beseems  triumphal  wreaths 
Strewed  before  thy  advancing  ! 

Nor  do  thou, 

Sage  Bard  !  impair  the  memory  of  that  hour 
Of  thy  communion  with  my  nobler  mind 
By  pity  or  grief,  already  felt  too  long  ! 
Nor  let  my  words  import  more  blame  than  needs. 
The  tumult  rose  and  ceased  :  for  peace  is  nigh 
Where  wisdom's  voice  has  found  a  listening  heart. 
Amid  the  howl  of  more  than  wintry  storms, 
The  halcyon  hears  the  voice  of  vernal  hours 
Already  on  the  wing. 

Eve  following  eve, 

Dear  tranquil  time,  when  the  sweet  sense  of  Home 
Is  sweetest !  moments  for  their  own  sake  hailed, 
And  more  desired,  more  precious  for  thy  song, 
In  silence  listening,  like  a  devout  child, 
My  soul  lay  passive,  by  thy  various  strain 


MEDITATIVE  POEMS.  179 

Driven  as  in  surges  now  beneath  the  stars, 
With  momentary  stars  of  my  own  birth, 
Fair  constellated  foam.*  still  darting  off 
Into  the  darkness  ;  now  a  tranquil  sea, 
Outspread  and  bright,  yet  swelling  to  the  moon. 

And  when — O  Friend  !  my  comforter  and  guide ! 
Strong  in  thyself,  and  powerful  to  give  strength  ! — 
Thy  long-sustained  Song  finally  closed, 
Arid  thy  deep  voice  had  ceased — yet  thou  thyself 
Wert  still  before  my  eyes,  and  round  us  both 
That  happy  vision  of  beloved  faces — 
Scarce  conscious,  and  yet  conscious  of  its  close 
I  sate,  my  being  blended  in  one  thought 
(Thought  was  it  ?  or  aspiration  ?  or  resolve  ?) 
Absorbed,  yet  hanging  still  upon  the  sound — 
And  when  I  rose,  I  found  myself  in  prayer. 


THE  NIGHTINGALE; 

A  CONVERSATION  POEM.      APRIL,    1798. 

No  cloud,  no  relique  of  the  sunken  day 
Distinguishes  the  West,  no  long  thin  slip 
Of  sullen  light,  no  obscure  trembling  hues. 
Come,  we  will  rest  on  this  old  mossy  bridge  ! 
You  see  the  glimmer  of  the  stream  beneath, 
But  hear  no  murmuring  :  it  flows  silently, 
O'er  its  soft  bed  of  verdure.     All  is  still, 
A  balmy  night !  and  though  the  stars  be  dim, 
Yet  let  us  think  upon  the  vernal  showers 
That  gladden  the  green  earth,  and  we  shall  find 
A  pleasure  in  the  dimness  of  the  stars. 
And  hark  !  the  Nightingale  begins  its  song, 
Most  musical,  most  melancholy '  bird  !  f 

*'  A  beautiful  white  cloud  of  foam  at  momentary  intervals  coursed  by  the  side  ot 
the  vessel  with  a  roar,  and  little  stars  of  flame  danced  and  sparkled  and  went  out 
in  it :  and  every  now  and  then  light  detachments  of  this  white  cloud-like  foam  darted 
off  from  the  vessel's  side,  each  with  its  ovn  small  constellation,  over  the  sea,  and 
acoured  out  of  sight  like  a  Tartar  troop  over  a  wilderness.'—  The  Friend,  p.  220. 

t  '  Most  musical,  most  melancholy.'}  This  passage  in  Milton  possesses  an  excellence 
far  superior  to  that  of  mere  description.  It  is  spoken  in  the  character  of  the  melan- 
choly man,  and  has  therefore  a  dramatic  propriety.  The  author  makes  this  remark, 
to  rescue  himself  from  the  charge  of  having  alluded  with  levity  to  a  line  in  Milton. 


I  So  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


A  melancholy  bird  !     Oh  !  idle  thought ! 

In  Nature  there  is  nothing  melancholy. 

But  some  night-wandering  man  whose  heart  was  pierced 

With  the  remembrance  of  a  grievous  wrong, 

Or  slow  distemper,  or  neglected  love, 

(And  so,  poor  wretch  !  filled  all  things  with  himself,  • 

And  made  all  gentle  sounds  tell  back  the  tale 

Of  his  OAvn  sorrow),  he,  and  such  as  he, 

First  named  these  notes  a  melancholy  strain. 

And  many  a  poet  echoes  the  conceit ; 

Poet  who  hath  been  building  up  the  rhyme 

When  he  had  better  far  have  stretched  his  limbs 

Beside  a  brook  in  mossy  forest-dell, 

By  sun  or  moon-light,  to  the  influxes 

Of  shapes  and  sounds  and  shifting  elements 

Surrendering  his  whole  spirit,  of  his  song 

And  of  his  fame  forgetful !  so  his  fame 

Should  share  in  Nature's  immortality, 

A  venerable  thing  !  and  so  his  song 

Should  make  all  Nature  lovelier,  and  itself 

Be  loved  like  Nature  !     But  'twill  not  be  so  ; 

And  youths  and  maidens  most  poetical, 

Who  lose  the  deepening  twilights  of  the  spring 

In  ball-rooms  and  hot  theatres,  they  still 

Full  of  meek  sympathy  must  heave  their  sighs 

O'er  Philomela's  pity-pleading  strains. 

My  Friend,  and  thou,  our  Sister  !  we  have  learnt 
A  different  lore  :  we  may  not  thus  profane 
Nature's  sweet  voices,  always  full  of  love 
And  joyance  !     'Tis  the  merry  Nightingale 
That  crowds,  and  hurries,  arid  precipitates 
With  fast  thick  warble  his  delicious  notes, 
As  he  were  fearful  that  an  April  night 
Would  be  too  short  for  him  to  utter  forth 
His  love-chant,  and  disburthen  his  full  soul 
Of  all  its  music  ! 

And  I  knoAV  a  grove 
Of  large  extent,  hard  by  a  castle  huge, 
Which  the  great  lord  inhabits  nov  ;  and  so 
This  grove  is  wild  with  tangling  uivierwood, 
And  the  trim  walks  are  broken  up,  and  grass, 
Thin  grass  and  king-cups  grow  within  the  paths. 
But  never  elsewhere  in  one  place  I  knew 
So  many  nightingales  ;  and  far  and  near, 
In  wood  and  thicket,  over  the  wide  grove, 


MEDITATIVE  POEMS.  181 

They  answer  and  provoke  each  other's  song, 

With  skirmish  and  capricious  passagings, 

And  murmurs  musical  and  swift  jug  jug, 

And  one  low  piping  sound  more  sweet  than  all — 

Stirring  the  air  with  such  a  harmony, 

That  should  you  close  your  eyes,  you  might  almost 

Forget  it  was  not  day !     On  moon-lit  bushes, 

Whose  dewy  leaflets  are  but  half  disclosed, 

You  may  perchance  behold  them  on  the  twigs, 

Their  bright,  bright  eyes,  their  eyes  both  bright  and  full, 

Glistening,  while  many  a  glow-worm  in  the  shade 

Lights  up  her  love-torch. 

A  most  gentle  Maid, 
Who  dwelleth  in  her  hospitable  home 
Hard  by  the  castle,  and  at  latest  eve 
(Even  like  a  Lady  vowed  and  dedicate 
To  something  more  than  Nature  in  the  grove) 
Glides  through  the  pathways  ;  she  knows  all  their  notes, 
That  gentle  Maid  !  and  oft  a  moment's  space, 
What  time  the  moon  was  lost  behind  a  cloud, 
Hath  heard  a  pause  of  silence  ;  till  the  moon 
Emerging,  hath  awakened  earth  and  sky 
With  one  sensation,  and  these  wakeful  birds 
Have  all  burst  forth  in  choral  minstrelsy, 
As  if  some  sudden  gale  had  swept  at  once 
A  hundred  airy  harps  !     And  she  hath  watched 
Many  a  nightingale  perched  giddily 
On  blossomy  twig  still  swinging  from  the  breeze, 
And  to  that  motion  tune  his  wanton  song 
Like  tipsy  joy  that  reels  with  tossing  head. 

Farewell,  O  Warbler!  till  to-morrow  eve, 
And  you,  my  friends  !  farewell,  a  short  farewell ! 
We  have  been  loitering  long  and  pleasantly, 
And  now  for  our  dear  homes. — That  strain  again  ! 
Full  fain  it  would  delay  me !     My  dear  babe, 
Who,  capable  of  no  articulate  sound, 
Mars  all  things  with  his  imitative  lisp, 
How  he  would  place  his  hand  beside  his  ear, 
His  little  hand,  the  small  forefinger  up, 
And  bid  us  listen !     And  I  deem  it  wise 
To  make  him  Nature's  play-mate.     He  knows  well 
The  evening-star ;  and  once,  when  he  awoke 
In  most  distressful  mood  (some  inward  pain 
Had  made  up  that  strange  thing,  an  infant's  dream), 
I  hurried  with  him  to  our  orchard  plot, 


182  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

And  he  beheld  the  moon,  and,  hushed  at  once, 

Suspends  his  sobs,  and  laughs  most  silently, 

While  his  fair  eyes,  that  swam  with  undropped  -tears, 

Did  glitter  in  the  yellow  nioon-beam  !     Well  !— > 

It  is  a  father's  tale  :  But  if  that  Heaven 

Should  give  me  life,  his  childhood  shall  grow  up 

Familiar  with  these  songs,  that  with  the  night 

He  may  associate  joy.— Once  more,  farewell, 

Sweet  Nightingale  !     Once  more,  my  friends  !  farewell. 


FROST  AT  MIDNIGHT. 

THE  frost  performs  its  secret  ministry, 
TJnhelped  by  any  wind.     The  owlet's  cry 
Came  loud — and  hark,  again  !  loud  as  before. 
The  inmates  of  my  cottage,  all  at  rest, 
Have  left  me  to  that  solitude,  which  suits 
Abstruser  musings  :  save  that  at  my  side 
My  cradled  infant  slumbers  peacefully. 
'Tis  calm  indeed  !  so  calm,  that  it  disturbs 
And  vexes  meditation  with  its  strange 
And  extreme  silentness.     Sea,  hill,  and  wood, 
This  populous  village  !     Sea,  and  hill,  and  wood, 
With  all  the  numberless  goings  on  of  life, 
Inaudible  as  dreams  !  the  thin  blue  flame 
Lies  on  my  low-burnt  fire,  and  quivers  not ; 
Only  that  film,  which  fluttered  on  the  grate, 
Still  flutters  there,  the  sole  unquiet  thing. 
Methinks,  its  motion  in  this  hush  of  nature 
Gives  it  dim  sympathies  with  me  who  live, 
Making  it  a  companionable  form, 
Whose  puny  flaps  and  freaks  the  idling  Spirit 
By  its  own  moods  interprets,  everywhere 
Echo  or  mirror  seeking  of  itself, 
And  makes  a  toy  of  Thought. 

But  O !  how  oft, 

How  oft,  at  school,  with  most  believing  mind, 
Presageful,  have  I  gazed  upon  the  bars, 
To  watch  that  fluttering  stranger  !  arid  as  oft, 
With  unclosed  lids,  already  had  I  dreamt 
Of  my  sweet  birth-place,  and  the  old  church-tower, 
Whose  bells,  the  poor  man's  only  music,  rang 


MEDITATIVE  POEMS.  183 

From  morn  to  evening,  all  the  hot  Fair-day, 
So  sweetly,  that  they  stirred  and  haunted  me 
With  a  wild  pleasure,  falling  on  mine  ear 
Most  like  articulate  sounds  of  things  to  come  I 
So  gazed  I,  till  the  soothing  things  I  dreamt 
Lulled  me  to  sleep,  and  sleep  prolonged  my  dreams  ! 
And  so  I  brooded  all  the  following  morn, 
Awed  by  the  stern  preceptor's  face,  mine  eye 
Fixed  with  mock  study  on  my  swimming  book : 
Save  if  the  door  half  opened,  and  I  snatched 
A  hasty  glance,  and  still  my  heart  leaped  up, 
For  still  I  hoped  to  see  the  stranger's  face, 
Townsman,  or  aunt,  or  sister  more  beloved, 
My  play-mate  when  we  both  were  clothed  alike  I 

Dear  Babe,  that  sleepest  cradled  by  my  side, 
Whose  gentle  breathings,  heard  in  this  deep  calm, 
Fill  up  the  interspersed  vacancies 
And  momentary  pauses  of  the  thought ! 
My  babe  so  beautiful !  it  thrills  my  heart 
With  tender  gladness,  thus  to  look  at  thee, 
And  think  that  thou  shalt  learn  far  other  lore 
And  in  far  other  scenes  !     For  I  was  reared 
In  the  great  city,  pent  'mid  cloisters  dim, 
And  saw  naught  lovely  but  the  sky  and  stars. 
But  thou,  my  babe  !  shalt  wander  like  a  breeze 
By  lakes  and  sandy  shores,  beneath  the  crags 
Of  ancient  mountain,  and  beneath  the  clouds, 
Which  image  in  their  bulk  both  lakes  and  shores 
And  mountain  crags  :  so  shalt  thou  see  and  hear 
The  lovely  shapes  and  sounds  intelligible 
Of  that  eternal  language,  which  thy  God 
Utters,  who  from  eternity  doth  teach 
Himself  in  all,  and  all  things  in  himself. 
Great  universal  Teacher  !  he  shall  mould 
Thy  spirit,  and  by  giving  make  it  ask. 

Therefore  all  seasons  shall  be  sweet  to  thee, 
Whether  the  summer  clothe  the  general  earth 
With  greenness,  or  the  redbreast  sit  and  sing 
Betwixt  the  tufts  of  snow  on  the  bare  branch. 
Of  mossy  apple-tree,  while  the  nigh  thatch 
Smokes  in  the  sun-thaw  ;  whether  the  eve-drops  fall 
Heard  only  in  the  trances  of  the  blast, 
Or  if  the  secret  ministry  of  frost 
Shall  hang  them  up  in  silent  icicles, 
Quietly  shining  to  the  quiet  Moon, 


1 84  COLERIDGE'S  7  C  £.»/.! 


THE  THREE  GRAVES. 

A   FRAGMENT  OF  A   SEXTON'S   TALE. 

[THE  Author  has  published  the  following  humble  fragment,  encouraged  by  the  de- 
cisive recommendation  of  more  than  one  of  our  most  celebrated  living  Poets.  The 
language  was  intended  to  be  dramatic  ;  that  is  suited  to  the  narrator  ;  and  the  metre 
corresponds  to  the  homeliness  of  the  diction.  It  is,  therefore,  presented  as  the  frag- 
ment, not  of  a  Poem,  but  of  a  common  Ballad-tale.  Whether  this  is  sufficient  to  justify 
the  adoption  of  such  a  style,  in  any  metrical  composition  not  professedly  ludicrous, 
the  Author  is  himself  in  some  doubt.  At  all  events,  it  is  not  presented  as  poetry,  and 
it  is  in  no  way  connected  with  the  Author's  judgment  concerning  poetic  diction.  Its 
merits,  if  any,  are  exclusively  psychological.  The  story  which  must  be  supposed  to 
have  been  narrated  in  the  first  and  second  parts  is  as  follows  : — 

Edward,  a  young  farmer,  meets  at  the  house  of  Ellen  her  bosom  friend  Mary,  and 
commences  an  acquaintance,  which  ends  in  a  mutual  attachment.  With  her  consent, 
and  by  the  advice  of  their  common  friend  Ellen,  he  announces  his  hopes  and  inten- 
tions to  Mary's  mother,  a  widow-woman  bordering  on  her  fortieth  year,  and  from  con- 
stant health,  the  possession  of  a  competent  property,  and  from  having  had  no  other 
children  but  Mary  and  another  daughter  (the  father  died  in  their  infancy),  retaining 
for  the  greater  part  her  personal  attractions  and  comeliness  of  appearance ;  but  a 
woman  of  low  education  and  violent  temper.  The  answer  which  she  at  once  returned 
to  Edward's  application  was  remarkable—'  Well.  Edward  !  you  are  a  handsome  young 
fellow,  and  you  shall  have  my  daughter.'  From  this  time  alHheir  wooing  passed  under 
the  mother's  eye  ;  and,  in  tine  she  became  herself  enamoured  of  her  future  son-in-law, 
and  practiced  every  art,  both  of  endearment  and  of  calumny,  to  transfer  his  affections 
from  her  daughter  to  herself.  (The  outlines  of  the  Tale  are  positive  facts,  and  of  no 
very  distant  date,  though  the  Author  has  purposely  altered  the  names  and  the  scene 
of  action,  as  well  as  invented  the  characters  of  the  parties  and  the  detail  of  the  inci- 
dents.) Edward,  however,  though  perplexed  by  her  strange  detractions  from  her 
daughter's  good  qualities,  yet  in  the  innocence  of  his  own  heart  still  mistaking  her 
increasing  fondness  for  motherly  affection  ;  she  at  length,  overcome  by  her  miserable 
passion,  after  much  abuse  of  Mary's  temper  and  moral  tendencies,  exclaimed  with 
violent  emotion — '  O  Edward  !  indeed,  indeed,  she  is  not  fit  for  you — she  has  not  a 
keart  to  love  you  as  you  deserve.  It  is  I  that  love  you  !  Marry  me,  Edward  !  and  I 
will  this  very  day  settle  all  my  property  on  you.'  The  Lover's  eyes  were  now  opened  ; 
and  thus  taken  by  surprise,  whether  from  the  effect  of  the  horror  which  he  felt,  acting  as 
it  were  hysterically  on  his  nervous  system,  or  that  at  the  first  moment  he  lost  the  sense 
of  guilt  of  the  proposal  in  the  feeling  of  its  strangeness  and  absurdity,  he  flung  her  from 
him  and  burst  into  a  tit  of  laughter.  Irritated  by  this  almost  to  frenzy,  the  woman  fell 
on  her  knees,  and  in  a  loud  voice  that  approached  to  a  scream,  she  prayed  for  a  curse 
both  on  him  and  on  her  own  child.  Mary  happened  to  be  in  the  room  directly  above 
them,  heard  Edward's  laugh,  and  her  mother's  blasphemous  prayer,  and  fainted  away. 
He,  hearing  the  fall,  ran  up-stairs,  and  taking  her  in  his  arms,  carried  her  off  to  Ellen's 


home  ;  and  after  some  fruitless  attempts  on  her  part  toward  a  reconciliation  with  her 

i. — And  here  the  third  part  of  the  Tale  begins. 
I  was  not  led  to  choose  this  story  from  any  partiality  to  tragic,  much  less  'o  mon- 


mother,  she  was  married  to  him. — And  here  the 


•trous  events  (though  at  the  time  that  I  composed  the  verses,  somewhat  more  than 
twelve  years  ago,  I  was  less  averse  to  such  subjects  than  at  present),  but  from  finding  in 
it  a  striking  proof  of  the  possible  effect  on  the  imagination  from  an  Idea  violently  and 
suddenly  impressed  on  it.  1  had  been  reading  By  ran  Kdward's  account  of  the  effect 
of  the  Oby  witchcraft  on  the  Negroes  in  the  West  Indies,  and  Hcarnc's  deeply  inter- 
esiinir  anecdotes  of  similar  workings  on  the  imagination  of  the  Copper  Indians  (those 
of  my  readers  who  have  it  in  their  power  will  be  well  repaid  for  the  trouble  of  referring 
to  those  works  for  the  passages  alluded  to),  and  I  conceived  the  design  of  showing  that 
instances  of  this  kind  are  not  peculiar  to  savage  or  barbarous  tribes,  and  of  Illustrating 
the  mode  in  which  the  mind  is  affected  in  these  cases,  and  the  progress  and  symptoms 
of  the  morbid  action  on  the  fancy  from  the  beginning. 

Tk«  Tale  is  supposed  to  be  narrated  by  an  old  Sexton,  in  a  country  churchyard,  to  a 


MEDITATIVE  POEMS. 


185 


traveller  whose  curiosity  had  been  awakened  by  the  appearance  of  three  graves,  close 
to  each  other,  to  two  only  of  which  there  were  gravestones.  On  the  iirst  of  those  wan 
tho  name,  and  dates,  as  usual  .  on  the  second,  no  name,  but  only  a  date,  ard  the 
words,  •  The  Mercy  of  God  is  infinite.'] 


THE   grapes    upon    the  Vicar's 

wall 

Were  ripe  as  ripe  could  be  ; 
And  yellow   leaves   in  sun  and 

wind 
Were  falling  from  the  tree. 

On  the  hedge-elms  in  the  narrow 

lane 

Still  swung  the  spikes  of  corn  : 
Dear  Lord  !  it  seems  but  yester- 
day— 

Young     Edward's     marriage- 
morn. 

Up  through  that  wood  behind 

the  church, 
There    leads    from    Edward's 

door 

A  mossy  track,  all  over-boughed, 
For  half  a  mile  or  more. 

And  from   their  house-door  by 

that  track 
The    bride    and     bridegroom 

went  ; 
Sweet  Mary,  though  she  was  not 

gay, 
Seemed  cheerful  and  content. 

But  when  they  to  the  church- 
yard came, 

I've  heard  poor  Mary  say, 
As  soon  as  she  stepp'd  into  the 

sun, 
Her  heart  it  died  away. 

4nd    when    the     Vicar    joined 

their  hands, 
Her    limbs     did     creep     and 

freeze  ; 
But     when     they     prayed,'   she 

thought  she  saw 
Her  mother  on  her  knees 


1818. 

And  o'er  the  church-path  they 

returned — 

I  saw  poor  Mary's  back, 
Just  as  she  stepp'd  beneath  tht 

boughs 
Into  the  mossy  track. 

Her  feet  upon  the  mossy  track 
The  married  maiden  set  : 

That  moment— I  have  heard  her 

say — 
She  wished  she  could  forget. 

The  shade  o'er-flushedher  limbs 

with  heat  — 

Then  came  i   chill  like  death  : 
And  when  the  merry  bells  rang 

out, 

They     seemed     to    stop    her 
breath. 

Beneath    the    foulest    mother's 
curse 

No  child  could  ever  thrive : 
A  mother  is  a  mother  still, 

The  holiest  thing  alive. 

So    five    months    passed :     the 
mother  still 

Would  never  heal  the  strife  ; 
But  Edward  was  a  loving  man, 

And  Mary  a  fond  wife. 

'  My  sister  may  not  visit  us, 
My  mother  says  her  nr.y, 

0  Edward  !  you  are  all  to  me, 

1  wish  for  your  sake  I  could  be 
More  iifesome  and  more  gay. 

4  I'm    dull     and   sad  !     indeed, 
indeed 

I  know  I  have  no  reason ! 
Perhaps  I  am  not  well  in  health. 

And  'tis  a  gloomy  season.' 


i86 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


'Twas  a  drizzly  time — no  ice,  no 

snow  ! 

And  on  the  few  fine  days 
She    stirred    not    out,    lest   she 

might  meet 
Her  mother  in  the  ways. 

But  Ellen,  spite  of  miry  ways 

And  weather  dark  and  dreary, 
Trudged  every  day  to  Edward's 

house, 

And    made    them    all    more 
cheery. 

Oh  !   Ellen  was  a  faithful  friend, 

More  dear  than  any  sister  ! 
As  cheerful  too  as  singing  lark  : 
And  she  ne'er  left  them  till  'twas 

dark, 

And  then  they  always  missed 
her. 

And  now  Ash  Wednesday  came 

— that  day 

But  few  to  church  repair  : 
For  on  that  day  you  know  we 

read 
The  Commination  prayer. 

Our  late  old  Vicar,  a  kind  man, 
Once,  Sir,  he  said  to  me, 

He  wished  that  service  was  clean 

out 
Of  our  good  liturgy. 

The    mother    walked    into    the 

church — 

To  Ellen's  seat  she  went: 
Though  Ellen  always  kept  her 

church 
All  church-days  during  Lent. 

And  gentle  Ellen  welcomed  her 
With     courteous     looks    and 

mild  : 
Thought  she  '  what  it  her  heart 

should  melt, 
And  all  be  reconciled  ! ' 


The   day    was   scarcely    like    a 

day — 

The    clouds  were    black  out- 
right : 
And  many  a  night,  with  half  a 

moon, 

I've    seen    the    church    more 
light. 

The  wind  was  wild  ;  against  the 

glass 

The  rain  did  beat  and  bicker  ; 
The  church-tower  swinging  over 

head, 

You    scarce    could    hear    the 
Vicar ! 

And  then  and  there  the  mother 

knelt, 

And  audibly  she  cried — 
*  Oh  !  may  a  clinging  curse  con- 
sume 
This  woman  by  my  side  ! 

'  O  hear  me,  hear  me,  Lord  in 

Heaven, 
Although  you  take  my  life— 

0  curse  this  woman    at   whose 

house 

Young     Edward     woo'd     his 
wife. 

'  By  night  and  day,  in  bed  and 

bower, 

O  let  her  cursed  be  ! ' 
So   having  prayed,  steady  and 

slow, 

She  rose  up  from  her  knee, 
And   left  the   church,    nor  e'er 

again 
The  church-door  entered  she. 

1  saw  poor  Ellen  kneeling  still, 
So  «pale,  I  guessed  not  why  : 

When     she     stood     up,     there 

pj airily  was 
A  trouble  in  her  eye. 


MEDITATIVE  POEMS. 


,87 


And    when    the    prayers     were 

done,  we  all 
Came   round   and    asked   her 

why : 
Giddy    she    seemed,    and    sure 

there  was 
A  trouble  in  her  eye. 

But   ere   she   from   the  church- 
door  stepped 

She  smiled  and  told  us  why  : 
'  It     was    a    wicked    woman's 

curse,' 
Quoth    she,    '  and   what  care 

I?' 
She    smiled,    and    smiled,    and 

passed  it  off 

Ere  from  the  door  she  stept, 

But  all  agree  it  would  have  been 

Much  better  had  she  wept. 

And   if  her  heart  was    not    at 

ease, 

This  was  her  constant  cry — 
'It     was    a     wicked     woman's 

curse — 
God's  good,  and  what  care  I  ?' 

There  was  a  hurry  in  her  looks, 

Her  struggles  she  redoubled  : 
'  It     was     a     wicked    woman's 

curse, 

And      why       should      I      be 
troubled  ? ' 

These  tears   will  come — I  dan- 
dled her 

When  'twas  the  merest  fairy — 
Good   creature  !  and  she  hid  it 

all: 
She  told  it  not  to  Mary. 

But  Mary  heard  the  tale:   her 

arms 

Round  Ellen's  neck  she  threw; 
kO  Ellen,  Ellen,  she  cursed  me, 
And    now    she    hath    cursed 
you  P 


I  ra\v  young  Edward  by  himself 
Stalk  fast  adown  the  lees 

He  snatched  a  stioh  from  every 

fence, 
A  twig  from  every  tree. 

He  snapped  them  still  with  hand 

or  knee, 

And  then  away  they  flew  ! 
As  if  with  his  uneasy  limbs 
He  knew  not  what  to  do ! 
You  see,  good   Sir  !   that  single 

hill? 

His  farm  lies  underneath  ; 
He  heard  it  there,  he  heard  it 

all, 

And  only  gnashed  his  teeth. 
Now  Ellen  was  a  darling  love 

In  all  his  joys  and  ^ares  r 
And   Ellen's   name  and  Mary's 
name  [came, 

Fast-linked  they  "both  together 
Whene'er  he  *aid  his  prayers. 
And  in  the  moment  of  his  pray- 
ers 

He  loved  them  both  alike  : 
Yea,  both  sweet  names  with  one 

sweet  joy 

Upon  his  heart  did  strike  ! 
He  reached  his  home,  and  by  his 

looks 

They  saw  his  inward  strife  : 
And  they  clung  round  him  with 

their  arms, 

Both  Ellen  and  his  wife. 
And  Mary  could  not  check  her 

tears,  • 

So  on  his  breast  she  bowed  ; 
Then  frenzy  melted  into  grief., 

And  Edward  wept  aloud. 
Dear  Ellen  did  not  weep  at  all, 

But  closelier  did  she  cling, 
And  turned  her  face  and  Jooked 

as  if 
She  saw  some  frightful  thing, 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


THE  THREE  GRAVES. 


PART    IV. 


To  see  a  m?\n  tread  over  graves 
I  hold  it  no  good  mark  ; 

'Tis  wicked  in  the  sun  and  uioon, 
And  bad  luck  in  the  dark  1 

You  see  that  grave  ?     The  Lord 
he  gives, 

The  Lord  he  takes  away : 
O  Sir  !  the  child  of  my  old  age 

Lies  there  as  cold  as  clay. 

Except  that  grave,  you  scarce 
see  one 

That  was  not  dug  by  me  ! 
I'd  rather  dance  upon  'em  all 

Then  tread  upon  these  three  ! 

'Ay,   Sexton!     'tis  a    touching 

tale.' 

You,  Sir  !  are  but  a  lad  ; 
This  month  I'm  in  my  seventieth 

year, 
And  still  it  makes  me  sad. 

And  Mary's  sister  told  it  me, 
For  three    good    hours    and 

more ; 
Though  I  had  heard  it,  in  the 

main, 
From  Edward's  self  before. 

Well !    it  passed  off  1  the  gentle 

Ellen 

Did  well  nigh  dote  on  Mary ; 
And  she  wenj  oftener  than  be- 
fore, 
And  Mary  loved  her  more  and 

more : 
She  managed  all  the  dairy. 

To  market  she  on  market-days, 
To  church  on  Sundays  came  ; 

AH  seemed  the  same  :  all  seemed 

so,  Sir ! 
But  all  was  not  the  same  I 


Had  Ellen  lost  her  mirth  ?    Oh  > 

no! 

But  she  was  seldom  cheerful  ; 
And  Edward  looked  as  if  he 

thought 

That  Ellen's  mirth  was  fear- 
ful, 

When  by  herself,  she  to  herself 
Must  sing  some  merry  rhyme  ; 

She  could  not  now  be  glad  foi 

hours, 
Yet  silent  all  the  time. 

And  when  she  soothed  her  friend* 
through  all 

Her  soothing  words  'twas  plain 
She  had  a  sore  grief  of  her  own, 

A  haunting  in  her  brain. 

And  oft  she  said,  I'm  not  grown 

thin! 
And     then     her     wrist     she 

spanned ; 

And  once  when  Mary  was  down- 
cast, 

She  took  her  by  the  hand, 
And  gazed  upon  her,  and  at  first 
She  gently  pressed  her  hand  ; 

Then  harder,  till  her  grasp  at 
length 

Did  grip  like  a  convulsion  ! 
Alas !  said  she,  we  ne'er  can  be 

Made  happy  by  compulsion  ! 

And  once  her  both  arms  sud- 
denly 

Round  Mary's  neck  she  flung, 
Arid  her  heart  panted,  and  she 

felt 
The  words  upon  her  tongue 


MEDITA  TIVE 


189 


She  felt   them   coming,  but  no 

power 

Had  she  the  words  to  smother ; 
And  with  a  kind  of   shriek  she 

cried, 

'  O   Christ  1    you're   like  your 
mother  1 ' 

So  gentle  Ellen  now  no  more 
Could  make  this    sad  house 
cheery ; 

And  Mary's  melancholy  ways 
Drove  Edward  wild  and  weary. 

Lingering  he  raised  his  latch  at 

eve, 
Though  tired    in    heart    and 

limb : 

He  loved  no  other  place,  and  yet 
Home  was  no  home  to  him. 

One  evening  he  took  up  a  book, 

And  nothing  in  it  read  ; 
Then  flung  it  down,  and  groan- 
ing cried, 
O  Heaven  !  that  I  were  dead.' 

Mary  looked  up  into  his  face, 
And  nothing  to  him  said  ; 

She  tried  to   smile,  and   on   his 

arm 
Mournfully  leaned  her  head. 

And  he  burst  into  tears  and  fell 
Upon  his  knees  in  prayer  : 

'  Her  heart  is  broke  !  O  God  !  my 

grief, 
It  is  too  great  to  bear  ! ' 

Twas    such   a    foggy   time    as 

makes 

Old  sextons,  Sir  !  like  me, 
Rest  on  their  spades  to  cough  ; 

the  spring 
Was  late  uncommonly. 

And  then  the  hot  days,  all   at 

once, 
They  fame,  we  know  not  how  : 


You    lookeo.    about    lor  shade, 

when  scarce 
A  leaf  was  on  a  bough. 

It  happened  then  ('twas  in  th? 

bower 

A  furlong  up  the  wood  : 
Perhaps   you   know   the   place 

arid  yet 

I    scarce    know    how    yoti 
should, — ) 

No  path   leads    thither,  'tis  not 

nigh 

To  any  pasture-plot ; 
But  clustered  near  the  chatter- 
ing brook, 
Lone  hollies  marked  the  spot. 

Those   hollies   of    themselves  a 

shape 

As  of  an  arbor  took, 
A   close,    round   arbor;    and  it 

stands 
Not  three  strides  from  a  brook. 

Within  this  arbor,   which   was 

still 

With  scarlet  berries  hung, 
Were    these   three  friends,   one 

Sunday  morn 
Just  as  the  first  bell  rung. 

'Tis  sweet  to  hear  a  brook,  'tis 

sweet 

To  hear  the  Sabbeth-bell, 
'Tis  sweet  to  hear  them  both  at 

once, 
Deep  in  a  woody  dell. 

His   limbs   along  the  moss,  his 

head 

Upon  a  mossy  heap, 
With   shut-up    senses,   Edward 

lay  : 
That  brook  e'en  on  a  working 

day 
Might  chatter  one  to  sleep. 


190 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


And   he  had  passed   a  restless 

night, 

And  was  not  well  in  health ; 
The    women   sat   down    by   his 

side, 

Anu     talked     as     'twere    by 
stealth. 

The  sun  peeps  through  the  close 

thick  leaves. 
See,  dearest  Ellen  !  see  ! 
'Tis  in  the  leaves,  a  little  sun, 
No  bigger  than  your  ee  ; 

1 A  tiny  sun,  and  it  has  got 

A  perfect  glory  too  ; 
Ten  thousand  threads  arid  hairs 

of  light, 
Make  up  a  glory,  gay  and  bright, 

Round  that  small  orb,  so  blue. 

And  then  they  argued  of  those 

rays, 

What  color  they  might  be  ; 
Says  this, '  they're  mostly  green;' 

says  that, 
'  They're  amber-like  to  me.' 

So  they  sat  chatting,  while  bad 

thoughts 
Were  troubling  Edward's  rest; 


But  soon   they  heard  his  hard 

quick  pants, 

And    the     thumping    in     his 
breast. 

'  A  mother  too  ! '  these  self-same 

words 

Did  Edward  mutter  plain  ; 
His  face  was  drawn  back  on  it' 

self, 
With  horror  and  huge  pain. 

Both  groaned  at  once,  for  both 

knew  well 
What  thoughts    were  in    his 

mind ; 

When  he  waked  up,  and  stared 

like  one  [blind. 

That  hath   been    just  struck 

He    sat    upright ;   and  ere    the 

dream 

Had  had  time  to  depart. 
'  O    God:    forgive    me  1    (he    ex- 
claimed) 
I  have  torn  out  her  heart.' 

Then  Ellen  shrieked,  and  forth- 
with burst 

Into  ungentle  laughter ; 
And  Mary  shivered,  where  she 

sat, 
And  never  she  smiled  after. 


Carmen  reliquuin  in  futurum  tempus  r«legatum. 
tud  To-morrow  I— 


To-morrow  1  and  To-morrow  J 


ODES  AND  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  1 

ODES  AND  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 
DEJECTION :  AN  ODE. 

Late,  late  yestreen  I  saw  the  new  Moon, 
With  the  old  Moon  in  her  arms  ; 
And  I  fear,  I  fear,  my  Master  dear  ! 
We  shall  have  a  deadly  storm. 

BALLAD  OF  SIR  PATRICK  SPENCK. 

I. 

WELL  !  If  the  Bard  was  weather-wise  who  made 
The  grand  old  ballad  of  Sir  Patrick  Spence, 
This  night,  so  tranquil  now,  will  not  go  hence 
TJnroused  by  winds,  that  ply  a  busier  trade 
Than  those  who  mould  yon  cloud  in  lazy  flakes* 
Or  the  dull  sobbing  draft,  that  moans  and  rakes 
Upon  the  strings  of  this  Eolian  lute, 
Which  better  far  were  mute. 
For  lo  !  the  new  Moon  winter-bright ! 
And  overspread  with  phantom  light, 
(With  swimming  phantom  light  o'erspread 
But  rimmed  arid  circled  by  a  silver  thread,) 
I  see  the  old  Moon  in  her  lap,  foretelling 

The  coming  on  of  rain  and  squally  blast. 
And  oh  !  that  even  now  the  gust  were  swelling, 

And  the  slant  night-shower  driving  loud  and  fast ! 
Those  sounds  which  oft  have  raised  me,  whilst  they  awed 

And  sent  my  soul  abroad, 

Might  now  perhaps  their  wonted  impulse  give, 
Might  startle  this  dull  pain,  and  make  it  move  and  live ! 

II. 

A  grief  without  a  pang,  void,  dark,  and  drear, 

A  stifled,  drowsy,  unimpassioried  grief, 

Which  finds  no  natural  outlet,  no  relief, 

In  word,  or  sigh,  or  tear — 
O  Lady  !  in  this  wan  and  heartless  mood, 
To  other  thoughts  by  yonder  throstle  woo'd, 

All  this  long  eve,  so  balmy  and  serene, 
Have  I  been  gazing  on  the  western  sky, 


igt  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

And  its  peculiar  tint  of  yellow  green  : 
And  still  I  gaze — and  with  how  blank  an  eye  ! 
And  those  thin  clouds  above,  in  flakes  and  bars, 
That  give  away  their  motion  to  the  stars  ; 
Those  stars,  that  glide  behind  them  or  between, 
Now  sparkling,  now  bedimmed,  but  always  seen  : 
Yon  crescent  Moon  as  fixed  as  if  it  grew 
In  its  own  cloudless,  starless  lake  of  blue  ; 
I  see  them  all  so  excellently  fair, 
I  see,  not  feel,  how  beautiful  they  are ! 

ill. 

My  genial  spirits  fail ; 
And  what  can  these  avail 

To  lift  the  smothering  weight  from  off  my  breast 
It  were  a  vain  endeavor, 
Though  I  should  gaze  forever 
On  that  green  light  that  lingers  in  the  west : 

not  hope  from  outward  forms  to  win 
passion  and  the  life,  whose  fountains  are  within. 

IV. 

O  Lady  I  we  receive  but  what  we  give, 
And  in  our  life  alone  does  nature  live  : 
Ours  is  her  wedding-garment,  ours  her  shroud  ! 

And  would  we  aught  behold,  of  higher  worth, 
Than  that  inanimate  cold  world  allowed 
To  the  poor  loveless  ever-anxious  crowd, 

Ah  !  from  the  soul  itself  must  issue  forth, 
A  light,  a  glory,  a  fair  luminous  cloud 

Enveloping  the  Earth — 
And  from  the  soul  itself  must  there  be  sent 

A  sweet  and  potent  voice,  of  its  own  birth, 
Of  all  sweet  sounds  the  life  and  element ! 

v. 

O  pure  of  heart !  thou  need'st  not  ask  of  me 
What  this  strong  music  in  the  soul  may  be  I 
What,  and  wherein  it  doth  exist, 
This  light,  this  glory,  this  fair  luminous  mist, 
This  beautiful  and  beauty-making  power. 

Joy,  virtuous  Lady  !  Joy  that  ne'er  was  given, 
Save  to  the  pure,  and  in  their  purest  hour, 
*jfe,  and  Life's  effluence,  cloud  at  once  and  shower, 


ODES  AND  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.         •          193 


Joy,  Lady  !  is  the  spirit  and  the  power, 
Which  wedding  Nature  to  us  gives  in  dower, 

A  new  Earth  and  new  Heaven, 
Undreamt  of  by  the  sensual  and  the  proud — 
Joy  is  the  sweet  voice,  Joy  the  luminous  cloud—- 
We in  ourselves  rejoice ! 
And  thence  flows  all  that  charms  or  ear  or  sight, 

All  melodies  the  echoes  of  that  voice, 
All  colors  a  suffusion  from  that  light. 

VI. 

There  was  a  time  when,  though  my  path  was  rough* 
This  joy  within  me  dallied  with  distress, 

And  all  misfortunes  were  but  as  the  stuff 

Whence  Fancy  made  me  dreams  of  happiness : 

For  hope  grew  round  me,  like  the  twining  vine, 

And  fruits,  and  foliage,  not  my  own,  seined  mine* 

But  now  afflictions  bow  me  down  to  earth  : 

Nor  care  I  that  they  rob  me  of  my  mirth, 
But  oh  !  each  visitation 

Suspends  what  nature  gave  me  at  my  birth, 
My  shaping  spirit  of  Imagination. 

For  not  to  think  of  what  I  needs  must  feel, 

,  But  to  be  still  and  patient,  all  I  can  ; 
haply  by  abstruse  reseaivh_tp  steal 
From  my  own  nature  all  the  natural  man — 
This  was  my  sole  resource,  my  only  plan  : 

Till  that  which  suits  a  part  infects  the  whole, 

And  now  is  almost  grown  the  habit  of  my  soul. 

VII. 

Hence,  viper  thoughts,  that  coil  around  my  mind, 

Reality's  dark  dream  ! 
I  turn  from  you,  and  listen  to  the  wind, 

Which  long  has  raved  unnoticed.     What  a  scream 
Of 'agony  by  torture  lengthened  out 
That  lute  sent  forth  !     Thou  Wind,  that  ravest  without 

Bare  craig,  or  mountain-tairn,*  or  blasted  tree, 
Or  pine-grove  whither  woodman  never  clomb, 
Or  lonely  house,  long  held  the  witches'  home, 

Methinks  were  fitter  instruments  for  thee, 


*  Tairn  is  a  small  lake,  generally,  if  not  always,  applied  to  the  lakes  up  In  the 
mountains,  and  which  are  the  feeders  of  those  in  the  valleys.  This  address  to  the 
Storm-wind  will  not  appear  extravagant  to  those  who  have  heard  it  at  night,  and  in  ^ 
mountainous  country. 

13 


194  COl&RZDG&S  POEMS. 

Mad  Lutanist !  who  in  this  month  of  showers, 
Of  dark  brown  gardens,  and  of  peeping  flowers, 
Mak'st  Devils'  yule,  with  worse  than  wintry  song, 
The  blossoms,  buds,  and  timorous  leaves  among. 
Thou  Actor,  perfect  in  all  tragic  sounds  ! 
Thou  mighty  Poet,  e'en  to  frenzy  bold  ! 
What  tell'st  thou  now  about  ? 
'Tis  of  the  rushing  of  a  host  in  rout, 
With  groans  of  trampled  men,  with  smarting  wounds — 
At  once  they  groan  with  pain,  and  shudder  with  the  cold ! 
But  hush  !  there  is  a  pause  of  deepest  silence  ! 

And  all  that  noise,  as  of  a  rushing  crowd, 
With  groans,  and  tremulous  shudderings — all  is  over — 
Jt  tells  another  tale,  with  sounds  less  deep  and  loud  ! 
A  tale  of  less  affright, 
And  tempered  with  delight, 
As  Otway's  self  had  framed  the  tender  lay, 
'Tis  of  a  little  child 
Upon  a  lonesome  wild, 

Not  far  from  home,  but  she  hath  lost  her  way : 
And  now  moans  low  in  bitter  grief  and  fear, 
And  now  screams  loud,  and  hopes  to  make  her  mother  heai 

VIII. 

'Tis  midnight,  but  small  thoughts  have  I  of  sleep  : 
Full  seldom  may  my  friend  such  vigils  keep ! 
Visit  her,  gentle  Sleep  I  with  wings  of  healing, 

And  may  this  storm  be  but  a  mountain-birth, 
May  all  the  stars  hang  bright  above  her  dwelling, 

Silent  as  though  they  watched  the  sleeping  Earth  t 
With  light  heart  may  she  rise, 
Gay  fancy,  cheerful  eyes, 

Joy  lift  her  spirit,  joy  attune  her  voice ; 
To  her  may  all  things  live,  from  pole  to  pole, 
Their  life  the  eddying  of  her  living  soul ! 

O  simple  spirit,  guided  from  above, 
Dear  Lady  !  friend  devoutest  of  my  choice, 
Tkus  mayest  thou  ever,  evermore  rejoice. 

\J 


ODES  AND  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  195 


ODE  TO  GEORGIANA, 

DUCHESS  OF  DEVONSHIRE,  ON  THE  TWENTY-FOURTH  STANZA 
IN  HER  'PASSAGE  OVER  MOUNT  GOTHARD.' 

'And  hail  the  chapel  !  hail  the  platform  wild 

Where  Tell  directed  the  avenging  dart, 
With  well-strung  arm,  that  first  preserved  his  child, 
Then  aimed  the  arrow  at  the  tyrant's  heart.' 

SPLENDOR'S  fondly  fostered  child  ! 
And  did  you  hail  the  platform  wild, 

Where  once  the  Austrian  fell 

Beneath  the  shaft  of  Tell  ! 
O  Lady,  nursed  in  pomp  and  pleasure  ! 
Whence  learn'd  you  that  heroic  measure  ? 

Light  as  a  dream  your  days  their  circlets  ran, 
From  all  that  teaches  brotherhood  to  Man 
Far,  far  removed  !  from  want,  from  hope,  from  fear  1 
Enchanting  music  lulled  your  infant  ear, 
Obeisance,  praises  soothed  your  infant  heart : 

Emblazonments  and  old  ancestral  crests, 
With  many  a  bright  obtrusive  form  of  art, 

Detained  your  eye  from  nature  :  stately  vests, 
That  veiling  strove  to  deck  your  charms  divine, 
Rich  viands  and  the  pleasurable  wine, 
Were  yours  unearned  by  toil  ;  nor  could  you  see 
The  unenjoying  toiler's  misery. 
And  yet,  free  Nature's  uncorrupted  child, 
You  hailed  the  chapel  and  the  platform  wild, 
Where  once  the  Austrian  fell 
Beneath  the  shaft  of  Tell ! 

O  Lady,  nursed  in  pomp  and  pleasure  ! 

Whence  learn'd  you  that  heroic  measure  ? 

There  crowd  your  finely-fibred  frame, 

All  living  faculties  of  bliss  ; 
And  Genius  to  your  cradle  came, 
His  forehead  wreathed  with  lambent  flame, 

And  bending  low,  with  godlike  kiss 

Breathed  in  a  more  celestial  life  ; 
But  boasts  not  many  a  fair  compeer, 

A  heart  as  sensitive  to  joy  and  fear 
And  some,  perchance,  might  wage  an  equal  strife. 
Some  few,  to  nobler  being  wrought, 
Corrivals  in  the  nobler  gift  of  thought. 


T9&  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

Yet  these  delight  to  celebrate 

Laurelled  war  and  plumy  state  ; 

Or  in  verse  arid  music  dress 

Tales  of  rustic  happiness — 
Pernicious  tales  !  insidious  strains  ! 

That  steel  the  rich  man's  breast, 

Arid  mock  the  lot  unblest, 
The  sordid  vices  arid  the  abject  pains, 
Which  evermore  must  be 
The  doom  of  ignorance  and  penury  ! 
But  you,  free  Nature's  uncorrupted  child, 
You  hailed  the  chapel  and  the  platform  wild, 

Where  once  the  Austrian  fell 

Beneath  the  shaft  of  Tell ! 
O  Lady,  nursed  in  pomp  and  pleasure  ! 
Whence  learn'd  you  that  heroic  measure? 


You  were  a  mother  !     That  most  holy  name, 

Which  Heaven  and  Nature  bless, 
I  may  not  vilely  prostitute  to  those 

Whose  infants  owe  them  less 
Than  the  poor  caterpillar  owes 

Its  gaudy  parent  fly. 
You  were  a  mother !  at  your  bosom  fed 

The  babes  that  loved  you.     You,  with  laughing  ey*, 
Each  twilight-thought,  each  nascent  feeling  read, 
Which  you  yourself  created.     Oh  !  delight ! 
A  second  time  to  be  a  mother, 

Without  the  mother's  bitter  groans  : 
Another  thought,  and  yet  another, 

By  touch,  or  taste,  by  looks  or  tones 
O'er  the  growing  sense  to  roll, 
The  mother  of  your  infant's  soul ! 
The  Angel  of  the  Earth,  who,  while  he  guides 

His  chariot-planet  round  the  goal  of  day, 
All  trembling  gazes  on  the  eye  of  God, 

A  moment  turned  his  awful  face  away  ; 
And  as  he  viewed  you,  from  his  aspect  sweet 

New  influences  in  your  being  rose, 
Blest  intuitions  arid  communions  fleet 
With  living  Nature,  in  her  joys  and  woes 
Thenceforth  your  soul  rejoiced  to  see 
The  shrine  of  social  Liberty  ! 
O  beautiful !     O  Nature's  child  ! 
'Twas  thence  you  hailed  th«  platform  wild 


ODES  AND  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  197 

Where  once  the  Austrian  fell 

Beneath  the  shaft  of  Tell ! 
O  Lady,  nursed  in  pomp  and  pleasure  ! 
Thence  learn'd  you  that  heroic  measure. 


ODE  TO  TRANQUILLITY. 

TRANQUILLITY  !  thou  better  name 

Than  all  the  family  of  Fame  ! 

Thou  ne'er  wilt  leave  my  riper  age 

To  low  intrigue,  or  factious  rage  ; 

For  oh  !  dear  child  of  thoughtful  Truth, 

To  thee  I  gave  my  early  youth, 
And  left  the  bark,  and  blest  the  steadfast  shore, 
Ere  yet  the  tempest  rose  and  scared  me  with  its  roar. 

Who  late  and  lingering  seeks  thy  shrine, 
On  him  but  seldom,  Power  divine, 
Thy  spirit  rests  !     Satiety 
And  Sloth,  poor  counterfeits  of  thee, 
Mock  the  tired  worldling.,     Idle  hope 
And  dire  remembrance  interlope, 
To  vex  the  feverish  slumbers  of  the  mind  : 
The  bubble  floats  before,  the  spectre  stalks  behind. 

But  me  thy  gentle  hand  will  lead 
At  morning  through  the  accustomed  mead  ; 
And  in  the  sultry  summer's  heat 
Will  build  me  up  a  mossy  seat ; 
And  when  the  gust  of  Autumn  crowds, 
And  breaks  the  busy  moonlight  clouds, 
Thou  best  the  thought  canst  raise,  the  heart  attune, 
Light  as  the  busy  clouds,  calm  as  the  gliding  nioon. 

The  feeling  heart,  the  searching  soul, 

To  thee  I  dedicate  the  whole  ! 

And  while  within  myself  I  trace 

The  greatness  of  some  future  race, 

Aloof  with  hermit-eye  I  scan 

The  present  works  of  present  man — 
A  wild  and  dream-like  trade  of  blood  and  guile, 
Too  foolish  for  a  tear,  too  wicked  for  a  smile  1 


198  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

LINES  TO  W.  L. 

WHILE   HE  SANG   A  SONG  TO  PURCELL'S   MUSIC. 

WHILE  my  young  cheek  retains  its  healthful  hues, 

And  I  have  many  friends  who  hold  me  dear ; 

L !  methinks,  I  would  not  often  hear 

Such  melodies  as  thine,  lest  I  should  lose 
All  memory  of  the  wrongs  and  sore  distress, 

For  which  my  miserable  brethren  weep ! 

But  should  uncomforted  misfortunes  steep 
My  daily  bread  in  tears  and  bitterness  ; 
And  if  at  death's  dread  moment  I  should  lie, 

With  no  beloved  face  at  my  bed-side, 
To  fix  the  last  glance  of  my  closing  eye, 

Methinks,  such  strains,  breathed  by  my  angel-guide, 
Would  make  me  pass  the  cup  of  anguish  by, 

Mix  with  the  blest,  nor  know  that  I  had  died  I 


ADDRESSED  TO  A  YOUNG  MAN  OF  FORTUNE 

WHO  ABANDONED   HIMSELF  TO   AN   INDOLENT  AND   CAUSELESS 
MELANCHOLY. 

HENCE  that  fantastic  wantonness  of  woe, 

O  Youth  to  partial  Fortune  vainly  dear ! 
To  plundered  want's  half-sheltered  hovel  go, 

Go,  and  some  hunger-bitten  infant  hear 

Moan  haply  in  a  dying  mother's  ear : 
Or  when  the  cold  and  dismal  fog-damps  brood 
O'er  the  rank  church-yard  with  sear  elm-leaves  strewed, 
Pace  round  some  widow's  grave,  whose  dearer  part 

Was  slaughtered,  where  o'er  his  uncoffined  limbs 
The  flocking  flesh-birds  screamed  !     Then,  while  thy  heart 

Groans,  and  thine  eye  a  fiercer  sorrow  dims, 
Know  (and  the  truth  shall  kindle  thy  young  mind) 
What  nature  makes  thee  mourn,  she  bids  thee  heal ! 

O  abject !  if,  to  sickly  dreams  resigned, 
All  effortless  thou  leave  life's  common-weal 

A  prey  to  tyrants,  murderers  of  mankind. 


ODES  AND  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  199 

THE  VIRGIN'S  CRADLE-HYMN. 

30PIED    «ROM   A   PRINT   OF  THE    VIRGIN,    IN    A   ROMAN   CATHOLIC 
VILLAGE   IN    GERMANY. 

DORMI,  Jesu  !     Mater  ridet 
Quae  tarn  dulcem  somnum  videt, 

Dormi,  Jesu  !  blandule  ! 
Si  non  dormis,  Mater  plorat, 
Inter  fila  cantans  orat, 

Blande,  veni,  somnule. 

ENGLISH. 

SLEEP,  sweet  babe  !  my  cares  beguiling: 
Mother  sits  beside  thee  smiling  ; 

Sleep,  niy  darling,  tenderly  1 
If  thou  sleep  not,  mother  mourneth, 
Singing  as  her  wheel  she  turneth : 

Conie,  soft  slumber,  balmily  I 


EPITAPH  ON  AN  INFANT. 

ITS  balmy  lips  the  infant  blest 
Relaxing  from  its  mother's  breast, 
How  sweet  it  heaves  the  happy  sigh 
Of  innocent  satiety  ! 

And  such  my  infant's  latest  sigh  ! 
O  tell,  rude  stone  !  the  passer  by, 
That  here  the  pretty  babe  doth  lie, 
Death  sang  to  sleep  with  Lullaby. 


MELANCHOLY. 


A   FRAGMENT. 

STRETCHED  on  a  mouldered  Abbey's  broadest  iralT, 
Where  ruining  ivies  propped  the  ruins  steep — 

Her  folded  arms  wrapping  her  tattered  pall, 
Had  Melancholy  mused  herself  to  sleep. 


100  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

The  fern  was  pressed  beneath  her  hair, 
The  dark  green  adder's  tongue  was  there  ; 
And  still  as  past  the  flagging  sea-gale  weak, 
The  long  lank  leaf  bowed  fluttering  o'er  her  cheek. 

That  pallid  cheek  was  flushed  :  her  eager  look 
Beamed  eloquent  in  slumber  !     Inly  wrought, 

Imperfect  sounds  her  moving  lips  forsook, 

And  her  bent  forehead  worked  with  troubled  thought. 
Strange  was  the  dream 


TELL'S  BIRTH. PLACE. 

IMITATED   FROM    STOLBERG. 


MARK  this  holy  chapel  well ! 
The  birth-place,  this,  of  William  Tell. 
Here,  where  stands  God's  altar  dread, 
Stood  his  parents'  marriage-bed. 

II. 

Here,  first,  an  infant  to  her  breast, 
Him  his  loving  mother  prest ; 
And  kissed  the  babe,  and  blessed  the  day, 
And  prayed  as  mothers  used  to  pray. 

ill. 

'Vouchsafe  him  health,  O  God  !  and  give 
The  child  thy  servant  still  to  live ! ' 
But  God  had  destined  to  do  more 
Through  him  than  through  an  armed  power. 

IV. 

God  gave  him  reverence  of  lawp, 

Yet  stirring  blood  in  Freedom's  cause— 

A  spirit  to  his  rocks  akin, 

The  eye  of  the  hawk  and  the  fire  therein  I 


ODES  AND  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  2OI 

V. 

To  Nature  and  to  Holy  Writ 
Alone  did  God  the  boy  commit : 
Where  flashed  and  roared  the  torrent,  oft 
His  soul  found  wings,  and  soared  aloft  I 

VI. 

The  straining  oar  and  chamois  chase 
Had  formed  his  limbs  to  strength  and  grace: 
On  wave  and  wind  the  boy  would  toss, 
Was  great,  nor  knew  how  great  he  was  1 

VII. 

He  knew  not  that  his  chosen  hand, 
Made  strong  by  God,  his  native  land 
Would  rescue  from  the  shameful  yoke 
Of  Slavery — the  which  he  broke  I 


A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL. 


THE  shepherds  went  their  hasty  way, 

And  found  the  lowly  stable-shed 
Where  the  Virgin-Mother  lay  : 

And  now  they  checked  their  eager  tread, 
For  to  the  Babe,  that  at  her  bosom  clung, 
A  mother's  song  the  Virgin-Mother  sung. 

II. 
They  told  her  how  a  glorious  light, 

Streaming  from  a  heavenly  throng, 
Around  them  shone,  suspending  night ! 
While  sweeter  than  a  mother's  song, 
Blest  Angels  heralded  the  Saviour's  birth, 
Glory  to  God  on  high  !  and  Peace  on  Earth. 

ill. 
She  listened  to  the  tale  divine, 

And  closer  still  the  Babe  she  prest ; 
And  while  she  cried,  the  Babe  is  mine  I 
The  milk  rushed  faster  to  her  breast : 
Joy  rose  within  her,  like  a  summer's  morn  j 
Peace,  Peace  on  Earth  I  the  Prince  of  Peace  Is  born. 


202  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

IV. 

Thou  Mother  of  the  Prince  of  Peace, 

Poor,  simple,  and  of  low  estate  ! 
That  strife  should  vanish,  battle  cease, 
O  why  should  this  thy  soul  elate  ? 

Sweet  music's  loudest  note,  the  poet's  story, 

Didst  thou  ne'er  love  to  hear  of  fame  and  glory  ? 

v. 

And  is  not  War  a  youthful  king, 

A  stately  hero  clad  in  mail  ? 
Beneath  his  footsteps  laurels  spring  ; 

Him  Earth's  majestic  monarchs  hail 
Their  friend,  their  playmate  !  and  his  bold  bright  eye 
Compels  the  maiden's  love-confessing  sigh. 

VI. 

'  Tell  this  in  some  more  courtly  scene, 

To  maids  and  youths  in  robes  of  state  1 
I  am  a  woman  poor  arid  mean, 

And  therefore  is  my  soul  elate. 
War  is  a  ruffian,  all  with  guilt  defiled,. 
That  from  the  aged  father  tears  his  child  1 

VII. 

'  A  murderous  fiend,  by  fiends  adored, 
He  kills  the  sire  and  starves  the  son  ; 
The  husband  kills,  and  from  her  board 

Steals  all  his  widow's  toil  had  won  ; 
Plunders  God's  world  of  beauty  ;  rends  away 
All  safety  from  the  night,  all  comfort  from  the  day. 

VIII. 

*  Then  wisely  is  my  soul  elate 

That  strife  should  vanish,  battle  ensase  r 
I'm  poor  and  of  low  estate, 

The  Mother  of  the  Prince  of  Peace. 
J  y  rise  in  me,  like  a  summer's  morn  : 
%  vace,  Peace  on  Earth  !  the  Prince  of  Peace  ia  born/ 


ODES  AND  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  203 

HUMAN  LIFE, 

ON  THE  DENIAL  OF  IMMORTALITY. 

IF  dead,  we  cease  to  be  ;  if  total  gloom 

Swallow  up  life's  brief  flash  for  aye,  we  fare 
As  summer-gusts,  of  sudden  birth  and  doom, 

Whose  sound  and  motion  not  alone  declare , 
But  are  their  whole  of  being !     If  the  breath 

Be  life  itself,  and  not  its  task  and  tent, 
If  even  a  soul  like  Milton's  can  know  death ; 

O  man  !  thou  vessel  purposeless,  unmeant, 
Yet  drone-hive  strange  of  phantom  purposes  ! 

Surplus  of  nature's  dread  activity, 
Which,  as  she  gazed  on  some  nigh-finished  vase 
Retreating  slow,  with  meditative  pause, 

She  formed  with  restless  hands  unconsciously ! 
Blank  accident !  nothing's  anomaly  ! 

If  rootless  thus,  thus  substanceless  thy  state, 
Go,  weigh  thy  dreams,  and  be  thy  hopes,  thy  fears, 
The  counter- weights  ! — Thy  laughter  and  thy  tears 

Mean  but  themselves,  each  fittest  to  create, 
And  to  repay  the  other  !     Why  rejoices 

Thy  heart  with  hollow  joy  for  hollow  good  ? 

Why  cowl  thy  face  beneath  the  mourner's  hood, 
Why  waste  thy  sighs,  and  thy  le.menting  voices, 

Image  of  image,  ghost  of  ghostly  elf, 
That  such  a  thing  as  thou  feel'st  warm  or  cold? 
Yet  what  arid  whence  they  gain,  ii'  thou  withhold 

These  costless  shadows  of  thy  shadowy  self? 
Be  sad !  be  glad  !  be  neither  !  seek,  or  shun  ! 
Thou  hast  no  reason  why  !     Thou  canst  have  none  ; 
Thy  being's  being  is  contradiction. 


THE  VISIT  OF  THE  GODS. 

IMITATED   FROM  SCHILLER. 

NEVER,  believe  me, 
Appear  the  Immortals, 

Never  alone : 

Scarce  had  I  welcomed  the  sorrow-beguiler, 
lacchus  !  but  in  came  boy  Cupid  the  smiler  ; 


204  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

Lo  !  Phoebus  the  glorious  descends  from  his  throne  ! 
They  advance,  they  float  in,  the  Olympians  all  1 
With  divinities  fills  my 
Terrestrial  hall ! 

How  shall  I  yield  you 
Due  entertainment, 

Celestial  quire  ? 

Me  rather,  bright  guests  !  with  your  wings  of  upbuoyance 
Bear  aloft  to  your  homes,  to  your  banquets  of  joyance, 
That  the  roofs  of  Olympus  may  echo  my  lyre ! 
Hah !  we  mount !  on  their  pinions  they  waft  up  my  soul ! 
O  give  me  the  nectar  ! 
O  fill  me  the  bowl ! 

Give  him  the  nectar ! 
Pour  out  for  the  poet, 

Hebe !  pour  free ! 

Quicken  his  eyes  with  celestial  dew, 
That  Styx  the  detested  no  more  he  may  view, 
And  like  one  of  us  Gods  may  conceit  him  to  be ! 
Thanks.  Hebe  !  I  quail'  it !  lo  Paean,  I  cry  I 
The  wine  of  the  Immortals 
Forbids  me  to  die  I 


ELEGY, 

IMITATED  FROM  ONE  OF  AKENSIDE'S  BLANK-VERSE  INSCRIP1  IONS 

NEAR  the  lone  pile  with  ivy  overspread, 

Fast  by  the  rivulet's  sleep-persuading  sound, 

Where  '  sleeps  the  moonlight '  on  yon  verdant  bed — 
O  humbly  press  that  consecrated  ground  ! 

For  there  does  Edmund  rest,  the  learned  swain  ! 

And  there  his  spirit  most  delights  to  rove  : 
Young  Edmund  !  famed  for  each  harmonious  strain, 

And  the  sore  wounds  of  ill-requited  love. 

Like  some  tall  tree  that  spreads  its  branches  wide, 
And  loads  the  west  wind  with  its  soft  perfume, 

His  manhood  blossomed  :  till  the  faithless  pride 
Of  fair  Matilda  sank  him  to  the  tomb. 


ODES  AND  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  205 

But  soon  did  righteous  Heaven  her  guilt  pursue  ! 

Where'er  with  wildered  step  she  wandered  pale, 
Still  Edmund's  image  rose  to  blast  her  view, 

Still  Edmund's  voice  accused  her  in  each  gale. 

With  keen  regret,  and  conscious  gvilt's  alarms, 

Amid  the  pomp  of  affluence  she  pined ; 
Nor  all  that  lured  her  faith  from  Edmund's  arms 

Could  lull  the  wakeful  horror  of  her  mind. 

Go,  Traveller  !  tell  the  tale  with  sorrow  fraught : 
Some  tearful  maid  perchance,  or  blooming  youth, 

May  hold  it  in  remembrance  ;  and  be  taught 
That  riches  cannot  pay  for  Love  or  Truth. 


THE  PANG  MORE  SHARP  THAN  ALL. 

AN  ALLEGORY. 


HE  too  has  flitted  from  his  secret  nest, 
Hope's  last  and  dearest  Child  without  a  name  ! — 
Has  flitted  from  me,  like  the  warmthless  flame, 
That  makes  false  promise  of  a  place  of  rest 
To  the  tired  Pilgrim's  still  believing  mind  ; — 
Or  like  some  Elfin  Knight  in  kingly  court, 
Who  having  won  all  guerdons  in  his  sport, 
Glides  out  of  view,  and  whither  none  can  find  1 

n. 

Yes !  He  hath  flitted  from  me — with  what  aim, 
Or  why,  I  know  not !     'Twas  a  home  of  bliss, 
And  He  was  innocent,  as  the  pretty  shame 
Of  babe,  that  tempts  and  shuns  the  menaced  kiss, 
From  its  twy-cluster'd  hiding-place  of  snow  ! 
Pure  as  the  babe,  I  ween,  and  all  aglow 
As  the  dear  hopes,  that  swell  the  mother's  breast— 
Her  eyes  down  gazing  o'er  her  clasped  charge ; — 
Yet  gay  as  that  twice  happy  father's  kiss, 
That  well  might  glance  aside,  yet  never  miss, 
Where  the  sweet  mark  embossed  so  sweet  a  targe— 
Twice  wretched  he  who  hath  been  doubly  blest  I 


*o6  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


III. 

Like  a  loose  blossom  on  a  gusty  night 

He  flitted  from  me — and  has  left  behind 

(As  if  to  them  his  faith  he  ne'er  did  plight) 

Of  either  sex  and  answerable  mind 

Two  playmates,  twin-births  of  his  foster-dame : — 

The  one  a  steady  lad  (Esteem  he  hight), 

And  Kindness  is  the  gentler  sister's  name. 

Dim  likeness  now,  tho'  fair  she  be  and  good, 

Of  that  bright  Boy  who  hath  us  all  forsook  ; — • 

But  in  his  full-eyed  aspect  when  she  stood, 

And  while  her  face  reflected  every  look, 

And  in  reflection  kindled — she  became 

So  like  Him,  that  almost  she  seemed  the  same ! 

IV. 

Ah  !  He  is  gone,  and  yet  will  not  depart ! — 
Is  with  me  still,  yet  I  from  Him  exiled  ! 
For  still  there  lives  within  my  secret  heart 
The  magic  image  of  the  magic  Child, 
Which  there  He  made  up-grow  by  his  strong  art 
As  in  that  crystal  *  orb — wise  Merlin's  feat, — 
The  wondrous  '  World  of  Glass,'  wherein  inisled 
All  longed  for  things  their  beings  did  repeat ; — 
And  there  He  left  it,  like  a  Sylph  beguiled, 
To  live  and  yearn  and  languish  incomplete ! 

v. 

Can  wit  of  man  a  heavier  grief  reveal  ? 

Can  sharper  pang  from  hate  or  scorn  arise  ? — 

Yes  !  one  more  sharp  there  is  that  deeper  lies, 

Which  fond  Esteem  but  mocks  when  he  would  heal. 

Yet  neither  scorn  nor  hate  did  it  devise, 

But  sad  compassion  and  atoning  zeal ! 

One  pang  more  blighting-keen  than  hope  betrayed  1 

And  this  it  is  my  woeful  hap  to  feel, 

When  at  her  Brother's  hest,  the  twin-born  Maid, 

With  face  averted  and  unsteady  eyes, 

Her  truant  playmate's  faded  robe  puts  on  ; 

And  inly  shrinking  from  her  own  disguise 

Enacts  the  fairy  Boy  that's  lost  and  gone. 

O  worse  than  all !  O  pang  all  pangs  above 

Is  Kindness  counterfeiting  absent  Love  ! 

*  F»erie  Queene,  n.  in.  c.  2,  §  19. 


ODES  AND  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  207 

KUBLA  KHAN :  OR,  A  VISION  IN  A  DREAM. 

A  FRAGMENT. 

IN  the  summer  of  the  year  1797,  the  Author,  then  in  ill  health,  had  retired  to  a 
tonery  farm  house  between  Porlock  and  Linton,  on  the  Exmoor  confines  of  Somerset 
and  Devonshire.  In  consequence  of  a  slight  indisposition,  an  anodyne  had  been  pre- 
scribed, from  the  effect  of  which  he  fell  asleep  in  his  chair  at  the  moment  that  he  was 
reading  the  following  sentence,  or  words  of  the  same  substance,  in  '  Purchas's  Pilgrim- 
age : '  '  Here  the  Khan  Kubla  commanded  a  palace  to  be  built,  and  a  stately  garden 
thereunto  :  and  thus  ten  miles  of  fertile  ground  were  inclosed  with  a  wall.'  The 
author  continued  for  about  three  hours  in  a  profound  sleep,  at  least  of  the  external 
senses,  during  which  time  he  has  the  most  vivid  confidence,  that  he  could  not  have 
composed  less  than  from  two  to  three  hundred  lines  ;  if  that  indeed  can  be  called  com 
position  in  which  all  the  images  rose  up  before  him  as  things,  with  a  parallel  produc 
tion  of  the  correspondent  expressions,  without  any  sensation  or  consciousness  of  ef- 
fort. On  awaking  he  appeared  to  himself  to  have  a  distinct  recollection  of  the  whole, 
and  taking  his  pen,  ink,  and  paper,  instantly  and  eagerly  wrote  down  the  lines  that  are 
here  preserved.  At  this  moment  he  was  unfortunately  called  out  by  a  person  on  busi- 
ness from  Porlock,  and  detained  by  him  above  an  hour,  and  on  his  return  to  the  room, 
found,  to  his  no  email  surprise  and  mortification,  that  though  he  still  retained  some 
vague  and  dim  recollection  of  the  general  purport  of  the  vision,  yet,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  some  eight  or  ten  scattered  lines  and  images,  all  the  rest  had  passed  away  like 
the  images  on  the  surface  of  a  stream  into  which  a  stone  had  been  cast,  but  alas ! 
without  the  after  restoration  of  the  latter  : 

Then  all  the  charm 

Is  broken — all  that  phantom-world  so  fair, 
Vanishes,  and  a  thousand  circlets  spread, 
And  each  mis-shape  the  other.    Stay  awhile, 
Poor  youth  !  who  scarcely  dar'st  lift  up  thine  eyes— 
The  stream  will  soon  renew  its  smoothness,  soon 
The  visions  will  return  !    And  lo  !  he  stays, 
And  soon  the  fragments  dim  of  lovely  forms 
Come  trembling  back,  unite,  and  now  once  more 
The  pool  becomes  a  mirror. 

Yet  from  the  still  surviving  recollections  in  his  mind,  the  Author  has  frequently  pur- 
posed to  finish  for  himself  what  had  been  originally,  as  it  were,  given  to  him.  Auptoi 
oiSioi'  ao-w  :  but  the  to-morrow  is  yet  to  come. 

As  a  contrast  to  this  vision,  I  have  annexed  a  fragment  of  a  very  different  charatf 
ter,  describing  with  equal  fidelity  the  dream  of  pain  and  disease. — 1316. 

KUBLA  KHAN. 

IN  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan  »    . 
A  stately  pleasure-dome  decree  : 
Where  Alph,  the  sacred  river,  ran  » 
Through  caverns  measureless  to  man 


Down  to  a  sunless  sea. 
So  twice  five  miles  of  fertile  ground 
With  walls  and  towers  were  girdled  round  : 
And  there  were  gardens  bright  with  sinuous  rills 
Where  blossomed  many  an  incense-bearing  tree  ; 
And  here  were  forests  ancient  as  the  hills, 
Enfolding  sunny  spots  of  greenery.  V 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


But  oh  !  that  deep  romantic  chasm  which  slanted  * 

Down  the  green  hill  athwart  a  cedarn  cover !   ' 

A  savage  place  !  as  holy  and  enchanted   < 

As  e'er  beneath  a  waning  moon  was  haunted  >, 

By  woman  wailing  for  her  demon-lover  !  \ 

And  from  this  chasm,  with  ceaseless  turmoil  seething, 

As  if  this  earth  in  fast  thick  pants  were  breathing, 

A  mighty  fountain  momently  was  forced  : 

Amid  whose  swift  half-intermitted  burst 

Huge  fragments  vaulted  like  rebounding  hail, 

Or  chaffy  grain  beneath  the  thresher's  flail : 

And  'mid  these  dancing  rocks  at  once  and  ever 

It  flung  up  momently  the  sacred  river. 

Five  miles  meandering  with  a  mazy  motion 

Through  wood  and  dale  the  sacred  river  ran, 

Then  reached  the  caverns  measureless  to  man, 

And  sank  in  tumult  to  a  lifeless  ocean  : 

And  'mid  this  tumult  Kubla  heard  from  far 

Ancestral  voices  prophesying  war  ! 

The  shadow  of  the  dome  of  pleasure 

Floated  mid-way  on  the  waves ; 

Where  was  heard  the  mingled  measure 

From  the  fountain  and  the  caves. 
It  was  a  miracle  of  rare  device, 
A.  sunny  pleasure-dome  with  caves  of  ice  t 

A  damsel  with  a  dulcimer 

In  a  vision  once  I  saw  : 

It  was  an  Abyssinian  maid, 

And  on  her  dulcimer  she  played, 

Singing  of  Mount  Abora. 

Could  I  revive  within  me 

Her  symphony  and  song, 

To  such  a  deep  delight  'twould  win  me 
That  with  music  loud  and  long, 
I  would  build  that  dome  in  air, 
That  sunny  dome  !  those  caves  of  ice  ! 
And  all  who  heard  should  see  them  there, 
And  all  should  cry,  Beware  !  Beware  I 
His  flashing  eyes,  his  floating  hair ! 
Weave  a  circle  round  him  thrice, 
And  close  your  eyes  with  holy  dread, 
For  he  on  honey-dew  hath  fed, 
And  drunk  the  milk  of  Paradise. 


ODES  AND  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  209 


THE  PAINS  OF  SLEEP. 

ERE  on  my  bed  my  limbs  I  lay, 

It  hath  not  been  my  use  to  pray 

With  moving  lips  or  bended  knees  ; 

But  silently,  by  slow  degrees, 

My  spirit  1  to  Love  compose, 

In  humble  trust  mine  eye-lids  close, 

With  reverential  resignation, 

No  wish  conceived,  no  thought  exprest* 

Only  a  sense  of  supplication  ; 

A  sense  o'er  all  my  soul  imprest 

That  I  am  weak,  yet  not  un blest, 

Since  in  me,  round  me,  everywhere 

Eternal  strength  and  wisdom  are. 

But  yester-night  I  prayed  aloud 

In  anguish  and  in  agony, 

Up-starting  from  the  fiendish  crowd 

Of  shapes  and  thoughts  that  tortured  me : 

A  lurid  light,  a  trampling  throng, 

Sense  of  intolerable  wrong, 

And  whom  I  scorned,  those  only  strong  t 

Thirst  of  revenge,  the  powerless  will 

Still  baffled,  arid  yet  burning  still ! 

Desire  with  loathing  strangely  mixed 

On  wild  or  hateful  objects  fixed. 

Fantastic  passions  !  maddening  brawl ! 

And  shame  and  terror  over  all ! 

Deeds  to  be  hid  which  were  not  hid, 

Which  all  confused  I  could  not  know, 

Whether  I  suffered,  or  I  did  : 

For  all  seemed  guilt,  remorse,  or  woe, 

My  own  or  others,  still  the  same 

Life-stifling  fear,  soul-stifling  shame. 

So  two  nights  passed  :  the  night's  dismay 
Saddened  and  stunned  the  coming  day. 
Sleep,  the  wide  blessing,  seemed  to  me 
Distemper's  worst  calamity. 
The  third  night,  when  my  own  loud  scream 
Had  waked  me  from  the  fiendish  dream, 
O'ercome  with  sufferings  strange  and  wild, 
I  wept  as  I  had  been  a  child ; 
And  having  thus  by  tears  subdued 
My  anguish  to  a  milder  mood, 
14 


t  OLE  RIDGE'S  POEMS. 


Such  punishments,  I  said,  were  due 
To  natures  deepliest  stained  with  sin,  — 
For  aye  entempesting  anew 
The  unfathomable  hell  within 
The  horror  of  their  deeds  to  view, 
To  know  and  loathe,  yet  wish  and  do  ! 
Such  griefs  with  such  men  well  agree, 
But  wherefore,  wherefore  fall  on  me? 
To  be  beloved  is  all  I  need, 
And  whom  I  love,  I  love  indeed. 


PROSE    IN    RHYME: 

OR,  EPIGRAMS,  MORALITIES,  AND  THINGS 
WITHOUT  A  NAME. 

'Epws  act  AayrjSpos  eraipos. 

In  many  ways  does  the  full  heart  reveal 

The  presence  of  the  love  it  would  conceal ; 

But  In  far  more  th*  estranged  heart  lets  know 

£he  absence  of  the  love,  which  yet  it  fain  would  show. 


DUTY  SURVIVING  SELF-LOVE, 

THE  ONLY  SURE  FRIEND  OF  DECLINING  LIFE. 
A  SOLILOQUY. 

UNCHANGED  within  to  see  all  changed  without, 

Is  a  blank  lot  and  hard  to  bear,  no  doubt. 

Yet  why  at  others'  Wanings  shouldst  thou  fret  ? 

Then  only  might'st  thou  feel  a  just  regret, 

Hadst  thou  withheld  thy  love  or  hid  thy  light 

In  selfish  forethought  of  neglect  and  slight. 

O  wiselier  then,  from  feeble  yearnings  freed, 

While,  and  on  whom,  thou  may'st — shine  on  !  nor  heed 

Whether  the  object  by  reflected  light 

Return  thy  radiance  or  absorb  it  quite  : 

And  tho'  thou  notest  from  thy  safe  recess 

Old  Friends  burn  dim,  like  lamps  in  noisome  air, 

Love  them  for  what  they  are  :  nor  love  them  less, 

Because  to  thee  they  are  not  what  they  were* 


SONG. 

THO'  veiled  in  spires  of  myrtle  wreath, 
Love  is  a  sword  that  cuts  its  sheath, 
And  thro'  the  clefts,  itself  has  made, 
We  spy  the  flashes  of  the  Blade ! 

(211) 


*  1 2  COLE  RID  G'£'S  POEMS. 

But  thro'  the  clefts,  itself  had  made, 
We  likewise  see  Love's  flashing  blade 
By  rust  consumed  or  snapt  in  twain : 
And  only  Hiit  and  Stump  remain. 


PHANTOM   OR   FACT? 

A  DIALOGUE  IN  VERSE. 
AUTHOR. 

A  LOVELY  form  there  sate  beside  my  bed, 
And  such  a  feeding  calm  its  presence  shed, 
A  tender  love  so  pure  from  earthly  leaven 
That  I  unnethe  the  fancy  might  control, 
'Twas  my  own  spirit  newly  come  from  heaven 
Wooing  its  gentle  way  into  my  soul ! 
But  ah !  the  change — It  had  not  stirred,  and  yet 
Alas  !  that  change  how  fain  would  I  forget  ? 
That  shrinking  back,  like  one  that  had  mistook! 
That  weary,  wandering,  disavowing  Look  ! 
'Twas  all  another,  feature,  look  and  frame, 
And  still,  rnethought,  I  knew  it  was  the  same ! 

FRIEND. 

This  riddling  Tale,  to  what  does  it  belong? 

Is't  History  ?  Vision  ?  or  an  idle  Song  ? 

Or  rather  say  at  once,  within  what  space 

Of  Time  this  wild  disastrous  change  took  place  ? 

AUTHOR. 

Call  it  a  moment's  work  (and  such  it  seems), 
This  Tale's  a  Fragment  from  the  Life  of  Dreams  ; 
But  say,  that  years  matured  the  silent  strife, 
And  'tis  a  Record  from  tke  Dream  of  Life. 


PROSE  IN  RHYME.  *  1 3 


WORK  WITHOUT  HOPE. 

LIKES    COMPOSED   SlST   FEBRUARY,    1827. 

ALL  Nature  seems  at  work.     Stags  leave  their  lair— 
The  bees  are  stirring — birds  are  on  the  wing — 
And  WINTER,  slumbering  in  the  open  air, 
Wears  on  his  smiling  face  a  dream  of  Spring ! 
And  I,  the  while,  the  sole  unbusy  thing, 
Nor  honey  make,  nor  pair,  nor  build,  nor  sing. 

Yet  well  I  ken  the  banks  where  Amaranths  blow, 
Have  traced  the  fount  whence  streams  of  nectar  flow. 
Bloom,  O  ye  Amaranths  !  bloom  for  whom  ye  may,  . 
For  me  ye  bloom  not !     Glide,  rich  streams,  away  ! 
With  lips  unbrightened,  wreath  less  brow,  I  stroll  : 
And  would  you  learn  the  spells  that  drowse  my  soul  ? 
WORK  WITHOUT  HOPE  draws  nectar  in  a  sieve, 
And  HOPE  without  an  object  cannot  live. 


YOUTH  AND  AGE. 

VERSE,  a  Breeze  'mid  blossoms  straying, 
Where  HOPE  clung  feeding,  like  a  bee — 
Both  were  mine  !    Life  went  a  maying 

With  NATURE,  HOPE,  and  POESY, 

When  I  was  young  ! 

When  I  was  young  ? — Ah,  woeful  WHEN  ! 
Ah  for  the  Change  'twixt  Now  and  Then  ! 
This  breathing  House  not  built  with  hands, 
This  body  that  does  me  grievous  wrong, 
O'er  aery  Cliffs  and  glittering  Sands, 
How  lightly  then  it  flashed  along  : — 
Like  those  trim  skiffs,  unknown  of  yore, 
On  winding  Lakes  and  Rivers  wide, 
That  ask  no  aid  of  Sail  or  Oar, 
That  fear  no  spite  of  Wind  or  Tide ! 
Naught  cared  this  body  for  wind  or  weather 
When  YOUTH  and  I  lived  in't  together. 

FLOWERS  are  lovely  ;  LOVE  is  flower-like  ; 
FRIENDSHIP  is  a  sheltering  tree ; 


2 1 4  COLERIDGE 'S  POEMS. 


O  the  Joys,  that  came  down  shower-like, 
Of  FRIENDSHIP,  LOVE,  and  LIBERTY, 

Ere  I  was  old  J 

Ere  I  was  old  ? — Ah,  woeful  ERB, 
Which  tells  me,  YOUTH'S  no  longer  here! 

0  YOUTH  !  for  years  so  many  and  sweet, 
'Tis  known,  that  thou  and  I  were  one, 
I'll  think  it  but  a  fond  conceit- 
It  cannot  be  that  thou  art  gone ! 

The  Vesper-bell  hath  not  yet  tolled  :— 
And  thou  wert  aye  a  Masker  bold  ! 
What  strange  Disguise  hast  now  put  on, 
To  make  believe,  that  thou  art  gone  ? 

1  see  these  Locks  in  silvery  slips, 
This  drooping  Gait,  this  altered  Size : 
But  SPRINGTIDE  blossoms  on  thy  Lips, 
And  Tears  take  sunshine  from  thine  eyes  ! 
Life  is  but  Thought :  so  think  I  will 
That  YOUTH  and  I  are  House-mates  still. 


A  DAT  DftEAM. 

MY  eyes  make  pictures  when  they're  shut : — 

I  see  a  fountain  large  and  fair, 
A  Willow  and  a  ruined  Hut, 

And  thee,  and  me,  and  Mary  there. 
O  Mary  !  make  thy  gentle  lap  our  pillow  ! 
Bend  o'er  us,  like  a  bower,  my  beautiful  green  Willow  ! 

A  wild-rose  roofs  the  ruined  shed,  • 

And  that  arid  summer  well  agree 
And  lo  !  where  Mary  leans  her  head, 

Two  dear  names  carved  upon  the  tree ! 
And  Mary's  tears,  they  are  not  tears  of  sorrow  : 
Our  sister  and  our  friend  will  both  be  here  to-morrow. 

'Twas  Day  !     But  now  few,  large,  and  bright 

The  stars  are  round  the  crescent  moon  1 
And  now  it  is  a  dark  warm  Night, 

The  balmiest  of  the  month  of  June  ! 
A  glow-worm  fallen,  and  on  the  marge  remounting 
Shines,  and  its  shadow  shines,  fit  stars  for  our  sweet  fountain, 


PROSE  IN  RHYME.  2 1 5 


O  ever — ever  be  thou  blest ! 

For  dearly,  ASRA  !  love  I  thee  ! 
This  brooding  warmth  across  my  breast, 

This  depth  of  tranquil  bliss— ah  me  ! 
Fount,  Tree,  and  Shed  are  gone,  I, know  not  whither, 
But  in  one  quiet  room  we  three  are  still  together. 

The  shadows  dance  upon  the  wall, 

By  the  still  dancing  fire-flames  made  ; 
And  now  they  slumber,  moveless  all ! 

And  now  they  melt  to  one  deep  shade  ! 
But  not  from  me  shall  this  mild  darkness  steal  thee  : 
I  dream  thee  with  mine  eyes,  and  at  my  heart  I  feel  thee ! 

Thine  eyelash  on  my  cheek  doth  play — 

'Tis  Mary's  hand  upon  my  brow ! 
But  let  me  check  this  tender  lay, 

Which  none  may  hear  but  she  and  thou  ! 
Like  the  still  hive  at  quiet  midnight  humming, 
Murmur  it  to  yourselves,  ye  two  beloved  women  ! 


TO  A  LADY, 

OFFENDED  BY  A  SPORTIVE   OBSERVATION  THAT  WOMEN  HAVE 
NO  SOULS. 

NAY,  dearest  Anna  !  why  so  grave  ? 

I  said,  you  had  no  soul,  'tis  true  ! 
For  what  you  are,  you  cannot  have : 

'Tis  I,  that  have  one  since  I  first  had  you  I 


I  HAVE  heard  of  reasons  manifold 
Why  Love  must  needs  be  blind, 

But  this  the  best  of  all  I  hold— 
His  eyes  are  in  his  mind. 

What  outward  form  and  feature  are 

He  guesseth  but  in  part ; 
But  what  within  is  good  and  fair 

He  seeth  with  the  heart. 


2 1 0  COLERID  GE'S  POEMS. 

LINES  SUGGESTED  BY  THE  LAST  WORDS  OF 
BERENGARIUS. 

OB,  ANNO  DOM.    1088. 

No  more  'twixt  conscience  staggering  and  the  Pope 
Soon  shall  I  now  before  my  God  appear, 
By  him  to  be  acquitted,  as  I  hope  ; 
By  him  to  be  condemned,  as  I  fear. — 

REFLECTION  ON  THE  ABOVE. 

Lynx  amid  moles !  had  I  stood  by  thy  bed, 

Be  of  good  cheer,  meek  soul !  I  would  have  said : 

I  see  a  hope  spring  from  that  humble  fear. 

All  are  not  strong  alike  through  storms  to  steer 

Right  onward.     What?  though  dread  of  threatened  death 

And  dungeon  torture  made  thy  hand  and  breath 

Inconstant  to  the  truth  within  thy  heart  ? 

That  truth,  from  which,  through  fear,  thou  twice  didst  start, 

Fear  haply  told  thee,  was  a  learned  strif*" 

Or  not  so  vital  as  to  claim  thy  life  : 

And  myriads  had  reached  Heaven,  who  never  knew 

Where  lay  the  difference  'twixt  the  false  and  true  1 

Ye,  who  secure  'mid  trophies  not  your  own, 
Judge  him  who  won  them  when  he  stood  alone, 
And  proudly  talk  of  recreant  BERENGARE — 
O  first  the  age,  and  then  the  man  compare  ! 
That  age  how  dark  !  congenial  minds  how  rare ! 
No  host  of  friends  with  kindred  zeal  did  burn  ! 
No  throbbing  hearts  awaited  his  return ! 
Prostrate  alike  when  prince  and  peasant  fell, 
He  only  disenchanted  from  the  spell, 
Like  the  weak  worm  that  gems  the  starless  night, 
Moved  in  the  scanty  circlet  of  his  light : 
And  was  it  strange  if  he  withdrew  the  ray 
That  did  but  guide  the  night-birds  to  their  prey  ? 

The  ascending  Day-star  with  a  bolder  eye 
Hath  lit  each  dew-drop  on  our  trimmer  lawn  ! 
Yet  not  for  this,  if  wise,  will  we  decry 
The  spots  and  struggles  of  the  timid  DAWN  ; 
Lest  so  we  tempt  th'  approaching  NOON  to  scorn 
The  mists  and  painted  vapors  of  our  MORN. 


PROSE  IN  RHYME.  * I> 


THE  DEVIL'S   THOUGHTS. 

FROM  his  brimstone  bed  at  break  of  day 
A  walking  the  DEVIL  is  gone, 
To  visit  his  little  snug  farm  of  the  earth 
And  see  how  his  stock  went  on. 

Over  the  hill  and  over  the  dale, 

And  he  went  over  the  plain, 

And  backward  and  forward  he  swished  his  long  tail 

As  a  gentleman  swishes  his  cane. 

And  how  then  was  the  Devil  drest  ? 

Oh  !  he  was  in  his  Sunday's  best : 

His  jacket  was  red  and  his  breeches  were  blue, 

And  there  was  a  hole  where  his  tail  came  through. 

He  saw  a  LAWYER  killing  a  Viper 

On  a  dung  heap  beside  his  stable, 

And  the  Devil  smiled,  for  it  put  him  in  mind, 

Of  Cain  and  his  brother,  Abel. 

A  POTHECARY  on  a  white  horse 

Rode  by  on  his  vocations, 
And  the  Devil  thought  of  his  old  Friend 

DEATH  in  the  Revelations. 

He  saw  a  cottage  with  a  double  coach-house, 

A  cottage  of  gentility  ! 
And  the  Devil  did  grin,  for  his  darling  sin 

Is  pride  that  apes  humility. 

He  went  into  a  rich  bookseller's  shop, 
Quoth  he,  we  are  both  of  one  college, 

For  I  myself  sate  like  a  cormorant  once 
Fast  by  the  tree  of  knowledge.* 

And  all  amid  them  stood  the  TREE  OF  LIFE 

High,  eminent,  blooming  ambrosial  fruit 

Of  vegetable  gold  (query  paper-money),  and  next  to  Life 

Our  Death,  the  TREE  OF  KNOWLEDGE,  grew  fast  by.— 

****** 
***** 
So  clomb  this  first  grand  thief- 


Thence  up  he  flew,  and  on  the  tree  of  life 
Sat  like  a  cormorant. — PAR.  LOST,  IV. 


Tie  allegory  here  is  so  apt.  that  in  a  catalogue  of  various  readings  obtained  from 
•ollating  the  MSS.  one  might  expect  to  find  it  noted,  thatfor '  LIFE  '  Cod.  auid.  Jtabent, 
•TRADE.'  Though  indeed  THE  TRADE,  i.  e.  the  bibliopolic,  so  called  /car  e^o^rjc,  may 
be  regarded  as  LIFE  sensu  eminentiori;  a  suggestion,  which  I  owe  to  a  young  retailer 


A  I S  COLERIDGE 'S  POEMS. 


Down  the  river  there  plied,  with  wind  and  tide, 

A  pig  with  vast  celerity, 

And  the  Devil  looked  wise  as  he  saw  how  the  while 
It  cut  its  own  throat.     There  !  quoth  he  with  a  smile, 

Goes  '  England's  commercial  prosperity.' 

As  he  went  through  0 old-Bath  Fields  he  saw 

A  solitary  cell, 
And  the  Devil  was  pleased,  for  it  gave  him  a  hint 

For  improving  his  prisons  in  Hell. 

****** 

General burning  face 

He  saw  with  consternation, 
And  back  to  Hell  his  way  did  he  take, 
For  the  Devil  thought  by  a  slight  mistake 

It  was  general  conflagration. 


THE  ALIENATED  MISTRESS: 

A  MADRIGAL. 
(FROM  AN   UNFINISHED   MELODRAMA.) 


LADY. 

IF  Love  be  dead  (and  you  aver  it !) 
Tell  me,  Bard !  where  Love  lies  buried. 

POET. 

Love  lies  buried  where  'twas  born, 
Ah,  faithless  nymph  !  think  it  no  seoi-n 


In  the  hosiery  line,  who  on  hearing  a  description  of  the  net  profits,  dinner  parties, 
•ountry  houses,  &c.,  of  the  trade,  exclaimed, '  Ay !  that's  what  I  call  LIFI-:  now!'— 
This  '  Life,  our  Death,'  is  thus  happily  contrasted  with  the  fruits  of  Authorship.— Sic 
nog  non  nobis  mellincamus  Apes. 

Of  this  poom,  which  with  the  Fire,  Famine,  and  Slaughter  first  appeared  in  the 
Morning  Post,  the  three  first  stanzas,  which  are  worth  all  the  rest,  and  the  ninth,  were 
dictated  by  Mr.  Southey.  Between  the  ninth  and  the  concluding  stanza,  two  or  three 
are  omitted,  as  grounded  on  subjects  that  have  lost  their  interest— and  for  better 
reasons . 

If  any  one  should  ask,  who  General meant,  the  Author  begs  leave  to  inforrfi 

him,  that  he  did  once  see  a  red-faced  person  in  a  dream  whom  by  the  dress  he  took  for 
a  General ;  but  he  might  have  been  mistaken,  and  most  certainly  he  did  not  hear  any 
names  mentioned.  In  simple  verity,  tin-  Ant  I ior  never  meant  any  one,  or  indeed  any* 
thing  but  to  put  a  concluding  stanza  to  his  doggerel. 


PROSE  IN  RHYME.  2 19 


If  in  my  fancy  I  presume 

To  name  thy  bosom  poor  LOVE'S  Tomb, 

And  on  that  Tomb  to  read  the  line, 

Here  lies  a  Love  that  once  was  mine, 

But  took  a  chill,  as  I  divine, 

And  died  at  length  of  a  decline. 


CONSTANCY  TO  AN  IDEAL  OBJECT. 

SINCE  all,  that  beat  about  in  Nature's  range, 
Or  veer  or  vanish  ;  why  should'st  thou  remain 
The  only  constant  in  a  world  of  change, 

0  yearning  THOUGHT,  that  liv'st  but  in  the  brain  ? 
Call  to  the  HOURS,  that  in  the  distance  play, 

The  fairy  people  of  the  future  day 

Fond  THOUGHT  !  not  one  of  all  that  shining  swarm 
Will  breathe  on  -    ?e  with  life-enkindling  breath, 
Till  when,  like  strangers  shelt'ring  from  a  storm, 
Hope  and  Despair  meet  in  the  porch  of  Death  ! 
Yet  still  thou  haunt'st  me  :  and  though  well  I  see, 
She  is  not  thou,  and  only  thou  art  she, 
Still,  still  as  though  some  dear  embodied  Good, 
Some  living  Love  before  my  eyes  there  stood 
With  answering  look  a  ready  ear  to  lend, 

1  mourn  to  thee  and  say — 'Ah  !  loveliest  Friend  ! 
That  this  the  meed  of  all  my  toils  might  be, 

To  have  a  home,  an  English  home,  and  thee ! 
Vain  repetition  !     Home  and  Thou  are  one. 
The  peacefulest  cot,  the  moon  shall  shine  upon, 
Lulled  by  the  Thrush  and  wakened  by  the  Lark, 
Without  thee  were  but  a  becalmed  Bark, 
Whose  Helmsman  on  an  Ocean  waste  and  wide 
Sits  mute  and  pale  his  mouldering  helm  beside.' 

And  art  thou  nothing  ?     Such  thou  art,  as  when 
The  woodman,  winding  westward  up  the  glen 
At  wintry  dawn,  whcr,  o'er  the  sheep-track's  maze 
The  vie\/less  snow-mist  waves  a      '  t'nirig  haze, 
Sees  full  before  him,  gliding  without  tread, 
An  image  *  with  a  ^lory  round  its  head  : 
The  enamoured  rustic  worships  its  fair  hues, 
Nor  knows  he  makes  the  shadow  he  pursues ! 

*  This  phenomenon,  which  the  Author  has  himself  experienced,  and  of  which  the 
reader  may  find  a  description  in  one  of  the  earlier  volumes  of  the  Manchester  Philo- 


220  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


THE  SUICIDE'S  ARGUMENT. 

ERE  the  birth  of  iny  life,  if  I  wished  it  or  no 
No  question  was  asked  me — it  could  not  be  so ! 
If  the  life  was  the  question,  a  thing  sent  to  try 
And  to  live  on  be  YES  :  what  can  No  be  ?  to  die. 

NATURE'S  ANSWER. 

Is't  returned  as  'twas  sent  ?     Is't  no  worse  for  the  wear  ? 

Think  first,  what  you  ARE  !    Call  to  mind  what  you  WERE 

I  gave  you  innocence,  I  gave  you  hope, 

Gave  health,  and  genius,  and  an  ample  scope. 

Return  you  me  guilt,  lethargy,  despair  ? 

Make  out  the  In  vent' ry  ;  inspect,  compare  ! 

Then  die — if  die  you  dare  1 


THE  BLOSSOMING  OF  THE  SOLITARY  DATE  TREE. 

A  LAMENT. 

I  SEEM  to  have  an  indistinct  recollection  of  having  read  either  in  one  of  the  pon- 
derous tomes  of  George  of  Venice,  or  in  some  other  compilation  from  the  uninspired 
Hebrew  Writers,  an  Apologue  or  Rabbinical  Tradition  to  the  following  purpose  : 

While  our  first  parents  were  yet  standing  before  their  offended  Maker,  and  the  last 
words  of  the  sentence  were  yet  sounding  in  Adam's  ear,  the  guileful  false  serpent,  a 
counterfeit  and  a  usurper  from  the  beginning,  presumptuously  took  on  himself  the 
character  of  advocate  or  moderator,  and  pretending  to  intercede  for  Adam,  exclaimed  : 
*  Nay,  Lord,  in  thy  justice,  for  the  Man  was  the  least  in  fault.  Rather  let  the  Woman 
return  at  once  to  the  dust,  and  let  Adam  remain  here  all  the  days  of  his  now  morta.'. 
life,  and  enjoy  the  respite  thou  mayest  grant  him,  in  this  thy  Paradise  which  tliou 
gavest  to  him,  and  hast  planted  with  every  tree  pleasant  to  the  sight  of  man  anil  of 
delicious  fruitage.'  And  the  word  of  the  Most  High  answered  Satan  :  •  The  lender 
mercies  of  the  wicked  are  cruel.  Treacherous  Fiend  !  guilt  deep  as  thine  could  not  be, 
yet  the  love  of  kind  not  extinguished.  But  if,  having  done  what  thou  hast  done,  thou 
hadst  yet  the  heart  of  man  within  thee,  and  the  yearning  of  the  soul  for  its  answering 
image  and  completing  counterpart,  O  spirit  desperately  wicked  !  the  sentence  thou 
counsellest  had  been  thy  own.' 

The  title  of  the  following  poem  was  suggested  by  a  fact  mentioned  by  Linnouis,  of 
»  Date  tree  in  a  nobleman's  garden  which,  year  after  year,  had  put  forth  a  full  show  ot 
blossoms,  but  never  produced  fruit,  till  a  branch  from  a  Date  tree  had  been  conveyed 
from  a  distance  of  some  hundred  leagues.  The  first  leaf  of  the  MS.  from  which  the 
;>oem  has  been  transcribed,  and  which  contained  the  two  or  three  introductory  stanzas, 

sophical  Transactions,  is  applied  figuratively  in  the  following  passages  of  the  AIDS  TO 
KI:I  I.KCTIOX  : 

'  Pindar's  fine  remark  respecting  the  different  effects  of  music,  on  different  charac- 
ter holds  equally  true  of  Genius  :  as  many  as  are  not  delighted  by  it  are  disturbed, 
perplexed,  irritated.  The  beholder  either  recognizes  it  as  a  projected  form  of  his  own 
Being,  th^t  mooes  before  him  with  a  Glory  round  its  head,  or  recoils  from  it  as  a 
spectre.'— AIDS  TO  REFLECTION,  p.  220. 


PROSE  IN  RHYME.  2  2 1 


is  wanting  :  and  the  author  has  in  vain  taxed  his  memory  to  repair  the  loss.  But  a 
rude  draught  of  the  poem  contains  the  substance  of  the  stanzas,  and  the  reader  is  re- 
quested  to  receive  it  as  the  substitute.  It  is  not  impossible,  that  some  congenial  spirit, 
whose  years  do  not  exceed  those  of  the  author,  at  the  time  the  poem  was  written,  may 
find  a  pleasure  in  restoring  the  Lament  to  its  original  integrity  by  a  reduction  of  the 
thoughts  to  the  requisite  Metre. 

S.  T.  C. 

1. 

BEXEATH  the  blaze  of  a  tropical  sun  the  mountain  peaks  are 
the  Thrones  of  Frost,  through  the  absence  of  objects  to  reflect  the 
rays.  '  What  no  one  with  us  shares,  seems  scarce  our  own.'  The 
presence  of  a  ONE, 

The  best  beloved,  who  loveth  me  the  best, 

is  for  the  heart,  what  the  supporting  air  from  within  is  for  the  hol- 
low globe  with  its  suspended  car.  Deprive  it  of  this,  and  all  with- 
out that  would  have  buoyed  it  aloft  even  to  the  seat  of  the  gods, 
becomes  a  burthen  and  crushes  it  into  flatness. 

2. 

The  finer  the  sense  for  the  beautiful  and  the  lovely,  and  the 
fairer  and  lovelier  the  object  presented  to  the  sense,  the  more  ex- 
quisite the  individual's  capacity  of  joy,  and  the  more  ample  his 
means  and  opportunities  of  enjoyment,  the  more  heavily  will  he 
feel  the  ache  of  solitariness,  the  more  unsubstantial  becomes  the 
feast  spread  around  him.  What  matters  it,  whether  in  fact  the 
viands  and  the  ministering  graces  are  shadowy  or  real,  to  him  who 
has  not  hand  to  grasp  nor  arms  to  embrace  them  ? 

3. 

Hope,  Imagination,  honorable  Aims, 
Free  Commune  with  the  choir  that  cannot  die, 
Science  and  Song,  delight  in  little  things, 
The  buoyant  child  surviving  in  the  man, 
Fields,  forests,  ancient  mountains,  ocean,  sky, 
With  all  their  voices  mute — O  dare  I  accuse 
My  earthly  lot  as  guilty  of  my  spleen 
Or  call  my  niggard  destiny  !     No  !  no  ! 
It  is  her  largeness,  and  her  overflow, 
Which  being  incomplete,  disquieteth  me  so  I 

4. 

For  never  touch  of  gladness  stirs  my  heart, 
But  tim'rously  beginning  to  rejoice 
Like  a  blind  Arab,  that  from  sleep  doth  start 
In  lonesome  tent,  I  listen  for  thy  voice. 


222  COLERID GE  'S  POEMS. 


Beloved !  'tis  not  thine  ;  thou  art  not  there  ! 

Then  melts  the  bubble  into  idle  air, 

And  wishing  without  hope  I  restlessly  despair. 

5. 

The  mother  with  anticipated  glee 

Smiles  o'er  the  child,  that  standing  by  her  chair 

And  flatt'ning  its  round  cheek  upon  her  knee 

Looks  up,  and  doth  its  rosy  lips  prepare 

To  mock  the  coming  sounds.     At  that  sweet  sight 

She  hears  her  own  voice  with  a  new  delight  ; 

And  if  the  babe  perchance  should  lisp  the  notes  aright, 

6. 

Then  is  she  tenfold  gladder  than  beorfe ! 

But  should  disease  or  chance  the  darling  take, 

What  then  avails  those  songs,  which  sweet  of  yore 

Were  only  sweet  for  their  sweet  echo's  sake  ? 

Dear  maid  !  no  prattler  at  a  mother's  knee 

Was  e'er  so  dearly  prized  as  I  prize  thee: 

Why  was  I  made  for  Love  and  Love  denied  to  me  ? 


FANCY  IN  NUBIBUS, 

OR    THE    POET    IN    THE     CLOUDS. 

0 !  IT  is  pleasant  with  a  heart  at  ease, 

Just  after  sunset,  or  by  moonlight  skies, 
To  mak6  the  shifting  clouds  be  what  you  please, 

Or  let  the  easily  persuaded  eyes 
Own  each  quaint  likeness  issuing  from  the  mould 

Of  a  friend's  fancy  ;  or  with  head  bent  low 
And  cheek  aslant  see  rivers  flow  of  gold 
'Twixt  crimson  banks  ;  and  then,  a  traveller,  go 
From  mount  to  mount  through  CLOUDLAND,  gorgeous  land/ 

Or  list'ning  to  the  tide,  with  closed  sight, 
Be  that  blind  bard,  who  on  the  Chian  strand 

By  those  deep  sounds  possessed  with  inward  light 
Beheld  the  ILIAD  and  ODYSSEY 

Rise  to  the  swelling  of  the  voiceful  sea. 


PROSE  IN  RHYME.  223 


THE  TWO  FOUNTS. 

STANZAS    ADDRESSED    TO    A    LADY    ON    HER  RECOVERY,    WITH 
UNBLEMISHED  LOOKS,  FROM  A  SEVERE  ATTACK  OF  PAIN. 

'TWAS  rny  last  waking  thought,  how  it  could  be, 
That  thou,  sweet  friend,  such  anguish  should'st  endure 
When  straight  from  Dreamland  came  a  dwarf,  and  he 
Could  tell  the  cause,  forsooth,  and  knew  the  cure. 

Methought  he  fronted  me  with  peering  look 
Fixed  on  my  heart ;  and  read  aloud  in  game 
The  loves  and  griefs  therein,  as  from  a  book  ; 
And  uttered  praise  like  one  who  wished  to  blame. 

In  every  heart  (quoth  he)  since  Adam's  sin 

Two  FOUNTS  there  are,  of  SUFFERING  and  of  CHEER! 

That  to  let  forth,  and  this  to  keep  within  ! 

But  she,  whose  aspect  I  find  imaged  here, 

Of  PLEASURE  only  will  to  all  dispense, 
That  Fount  alone  unlock,  by  no  distress 
Choked  or  turned  inward  ;  but  still  issue  thence 
Unconquered  cheer,  persistent  loveliness. 

As  on  the  driving  cloud  the  shiny  Bow, 
That  gracious  thing  made  up  of  tears  and  light, 
Mid  the  wild  rack  and  rain  that  slants  below 
Stands  smiling  forth,  unmoved  and  freshly  bright : 

As  though  the  spirits  of  all  lovely  flowers, 
Inweaving  each  its  wreath  and  dewy  crown, 
Or  e'er  they  sank  to  earth  in  vernal  showers, 
Had  built  a  bridge  to  tempt  the  angels  down. 

Ev'n  so,  Eliza  !  on  that  face  of  thine, 

On  that  benignant  face,  whose  look  alone 

(The  soul's  translucence  through  her  crystal  shrine  !) 

Has  power  to  soothe  all  anguish  but  thine  own. 

A  beauty  hovers  still,  and  ne'er  takes  wing, 
But  with  a  silent  charm  compels  the  stern 
And  tort'ring  Genius  of  the  BITTER  SPRING, 
To  shrink  aback,  and  cower  upon  his  urn. 

Who  then  needs  wonder,  if  (no  outlet  found 
In  passion,  spleen,  or  strife,)  the  FOUNT  OF  PAIN 
O'erflowing  beats  against  its  lovely  mound, 
And  in  wild  flashes  shoots  from  heart  to  brain  ? 


••24  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


Sleep,  and  the  Dwarf  with  that  unsteady  gleam 
On  his  raised  lip,  that  aped  a  critic  smile, 
Had  passed  :  yet  I,  my  sad  thoughts  to  beguile, 
Lay  weaving  on  the  tissue  of  my  dream : 

Till  audibly  at  length  I  cried,  as  though 
Thou  hadst  indeed  been  present  to  my  eyes, 

0  sweet,  sweet  sufferer  !  if  the  case  be  so, 

1  pray  thee,  be  less  good,  less  sweet,  less  wise ! 

In  every  look  a  barbed  arrow  send, 
On  those  soft  lips  let  scorn  and  anger  live  ! 
Do  any  thing,  rather  than  ihus,  sweet  friend  ! 
Hoard  for  thyself  the  pain,  thou  wilt  not  give  I 


PROSE  IN  RHYME. 


PREFATORY  NOTE  TO  THE  WANDERINGS  OF  CAIN. 


A  PROSE  composition,  one  not  in  metre  at  least,  seems  prima  fade  to  require  ex- 
planation or  apology.  It  was  written  iu  the  year  1798,  near  Nether  Stowey  in  Somer- 
setshire, at  which  place  (sanctum  et  amabile  nomen  '  rich  by  so  many  associations  and 
recollections)  the  Authoi  had  taken  up  his  residence  in  order  to  enjoy  the  society  and 
close  neighborhood  of  a  dear  and  honored  friend,  T.  Poole,  Esq.  The  work  was  to 
have  been  written  in  concert  with  another,  whose  name  is  too  venerable  within  the 
precincts  of  genius  to  be  unnecessarily  brought  into  connection  with  such  a  trifle,  and 
who  was  then  residing  at  a  small  distance  from  Nether  Stowey.  The  title  nnd  subject 
were  suggested  by  myself,  who  likewise  drew  out  the  scheme  and  the  contents  for  each 
of  the  three  books  or  cantos,  of  which  the  work  wa§  to  consist,  and  which,  the  reader 
is  to  be  informed,  was  to  have  been  finished  in  one  night !  My  partner  undertook  the 
first  canto  ;  I.  the  second  :  and  whichever  had  done  Jirst,  was  to  set  about  the  third. 
Almost  thirty  years  have  passed  by  ;  yet  at  this  moment  I  cannot  without  something 
more  than  a  smile  moot  the  question  which  of  the  two  things  was  the  more  impractic- 
able, for  a  mind  so  eminently  original  to  compose  another  man's  thoughts  and  fancies, 
or  for  a  taste  so  austerely  pure  and  simple  to  imitate  the  Death  of  Abel  ?  Methinks  I 
see  his  grand  and  noble  countenance  as  at  the  moment  when,  having  despatched  my 
own  portion  of  the  task  at  full  finger-speed,  1  hastened  to  him  with  my  manuscript — 
look  of  humorous  despondencv  rixed  011  his  almost  blank  sheet  of  paper,  and  then 


that 


its  silent  mock-piteous  admission  of  failure  struggling  with  the  sense  of  the  exceeding 
ridiculousness  of  the  whole  scheme— which  broke  up  in  a  laugh  :  and  the  Ancient 
Mariner  was  written  instead. 

Years  afterward,  however,  the  draft  of  the  Plan  and  proposed  incidents,  and  the 
portion  executed,  obtained  favor  in  the  eyes  of  more  than  one  person,  whose  judgment 
on  a  poetic  work  could  not  but  have  weighed  with  me,  even  though  no  paren'al  par- 
tiality had  been  thrown  into  the  same  scale,  as  a  make-weight  :  and  I  determined  on 
commencing  anew,  and  composing  the  whole  in  stanzas,  and  made  some  progress  in 
realizing  this  intention,  when  adverse  gales  drove  my  bark  off  the  '  Fortunate  isles  '  of 
the  Muses  ;  and  then  other  and  more  momentous  interests  prompted  a  different  voy- 
age, to  firmer  anchorage  and  a  securer  port.  I  have  in  vain  tried  to  recover  the  lines 
from  the  Palimpsest  tablet  of  my  memory  ;  and  I  can  only  offer  the  introductory 
stanza,  which  had  been  committed  to  writing  for  the  purpose  of  procuring  a  friend's 
judgment  on  the  metre,  as  a  specimen. 

Encinctured  with  a  twh.e  of  leaves, 

That  leafy  twine  his  only  dress  ! 

A  lovely  boy  was  plucking  fruits, 

By  moonlight,  in  a  wilderness. 

The  morn  was  bright,  the  air  was  free, 

And  fruits  and  flowers  together  grew 
i  On  many  a  shrub  and  many  a  tree  : 

And  all  put  on  a  gentle  hue, 

Hanging  in  the  shadowy  air 

Like  a  picture  rich  and  rare. 

It  was  a  climate  where,  they  say, 

The  night  is  more  beloved  than  day. 

But  who  that  beauteous  Boy  beguiled, 

That  beauteous  Boy  to  linger  here? 

Alone,  by  night,  a  litt-le  child, 

In  place  so  silent  and  so  wild- 
Has  he  no  friend,  no  loving  Mother  near  ? 

T  have  here  given  the  birth,  parentage,  and  premature  decease  of  the  '  Wandering* 
of  (Jain,  a  poem,' — entreating,  however,  my  readers  not  to  think  so  meanly  of  my  judg- 
ment as  to  suppose  that  I  either  regard  or  offer  it  as  any  excuse  for  the  publication  of 
the  following  fragment  (and  1  may  add,  of  one  or  two  others  in  its  neighborhood)  in 
its  primitive  crudity.  But  I  should  find  still  greater  difficulty  in  forgiving  myself, 
were  I  to  record  pro  tcedio  publico  a  set  of  petty  mishaps  and  annoyances  which  I  my- 
self wish  to  forget.  I  must  be  content,  therefore,  with  assuring  the  friendly  Reader, 
that  the  less  he  attributes  its  appearance  to  the  Author's  will,  choice,  or  judgment,  th« 
nearer  to  the  truth  he  will  be. 

S.  T.  COLERIDGE. 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


THE  WANDERINGS  OF  CAIN. 

CANTO    II. 

1  A  LITTLE  further,  O  my  father,  yet  a  little  further,  and  we 
shall  come  into  the  open  moonlight.'  Their  road  was  through  a 
forest  of  fir-trees  ;  at  its  entrance  the  trees  stood  at  distances  from 
eacli  other,  and  the  path  was  broad,  and  the  moonlight  and  the 
moonlight  shadows  reposed  upon  it,  and  appeared  quietly  to  in- 
habit that  solitude.  But  soon  the  path  winded  arid  became  nar- 
row ;  the  sun  at  high  noon  sometimes  speckled,  but  never  illumined 
it,  and  now  it  was  dark  as  a  cavern. 

*  It  is  dark,  O  my  father  !  '  said  Enos,  *  but  the  path  under  our 
feet  is  smooth  and  soft,  and  we  shall  soon  come  out  into  the  open 
moonlight.' 

'  Lead  on,  my  child  !  '  said  Cain  :  '  guide  me,  little  child  !  '  And 
the  innocent  little  child  clasped  a  finger  of  the  hand  which  had 
murdered  the  righteous  Abel,  and  ho  guided  his  father.  '  The  fir 
branches  drip  upon  thee,  my  son.'  '  Yea,  pleasantly,  father,  for  I 
ran  fast  and  eagerly  to  bring  thee  the  pitcher  arid  the  cake,  and 
my  body  is  not  yet  cool.  How  happy  the  squirrels  are  that  feed 
on  these  fir-Trees  !  they  leap  from  bough  to  bough,  and  the  old 
squirrels  play  round  their  young  ones  in  the  nest.  I  clomb  a  tree 
yesterday  at  noon,  O  my  father,  that  I  might  play  with  them,  but 
they  leapt  away  from  the  branches,  even  to  the  slender  twigs  did 
bey  leap,  and  in  a  moment  I  beheld  them  on  another  tree.  Why, 
»  my  father,  would  they  not  play  with  me  ?  I  would  be  good  to 
Jiem  as  thou  art  good  to  me  :  and  I  groaned  to  them  even  as  thou 
^roanest  when  thou  givest  me  to  eat,  arid  when  thou  coverest  me 
at  evening,  and  as  often  as  I  stand  at  thy  knee  and  thine  eyes  look 
at  me  ?  '  Then  Cain  stopped,  and  stifling  his  groans  he  sank  to 
the  earth,  and  the  child  Enos  stood  in  the  darkness  beside  him. 

Arid  Cain  lifted  up  his  voice  and  cried  bitterly,  and  said,  'The 
ftlighty  One  that  persecuted!  me  is  on  this  side  arid  on  that  ;  he 
pursueth  my  soul  like  the  wind,  like  the  sand-blast  he  passeth 
through  me  ;  he  is  around  me  even  as  the  air  !  O  that  I  might  be 
utterly  no  more  !  I  desire  to  die  —  yea,  the  things  that  never  had 
rife,  neither  move  they  upon  the  earth  —  behold  !  they  seem  precious 
to  mine  eyes.  O  that  a  man  might  live  without  the  breath  of  his 
nostrils.  So  I  might  abide  in  darkness,  and  blackness,  and  an 
smpty  space  1  Yea,  I  would  lie  down,  I  would  not  rise,  neither 
would  I  stir  my  limbs  till  I  became  as  the  rock  in  the  den  of  the 
lion,  on  which  the  young  lion  resteth  his  head  whilst  he  sleepeth, 


PR OSE  IN  RHYME,  227 

For  the  torrent  that  roareth  far  off  hath  a  voice  ;  and  the  clouds 
in  heaven  look  terribly  on  me  ;  the  Mighty  One  who  is  against  me 
speaketh  in  the  wind  of  the  cedar  grove  ;  and  in  silence  am  I  dried 
up.'  Then  Enos  spake  to  his  father,  *  Arise,  my  father,  arise,  we 
are  but  a  little  way  from  the  place  where  I  found  the  cake  and  the 
pitcher.'  And  Cain  said,  'How  knowest  thou?'  and  the  child 
aiiswerel — '  Behold,  the  bare  rocks  are  a  few  of  thy  strides  distant 
irom  the  forest ;  arid  while  even  now  thou  wert  lifting  up  thy 
voice,  I  heard  the  echo.'  Then  the  child  took  hold  of  his  father, 
as  if  he  would  raise  him  :  and  Cain,  being  faint  and  feeble,  rose 
slowly  on  his  knees  and  pressed  himself  against  the  trunk  of  a  fir, 
and  stood  upright  and  followed  the  child. 

The  path  was  dark  till  within  three  strides'  length  of  its  termi- 
nation, when  it  turned  suddenly  ;  the  thick  black  trees  formed  a 
low  arch,  arid  the  moonlight  appeared  for  a  moment  like  a  daz- 
zling portal.  Enos  ran  before  and  stood  in  the  open  air  ;  and 
when  Cain,  his  father,  emerged  from  the  darkness,  the  child  was 
affrighted.  For  the  mighty  limbs  of  Cain  were  wasted  as  by  tire  : 
his  hair  was  as  the  matted  curls  on  the  Bison's  forehead,  and  so 
glared  his  fierce  and  sullen  eye  beneath :  and  the  black  abundant 
locks  on  either  side,  a  rank  and  tangled  mass,  were  stained  and 
scorched,  as  though  the  grasp  of  a  burning  iron  hand  had  striven 
to  rend  them  ;  and  his  countenance  told  in  a  strange  and  terrible 
language  of  agonies  that  had  been,  and  were,  and  were  still  to 
continue  to  be. 

The  scene  around  was  desolate  ;  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach 
it  was  desolate  :  the  bare  rocks  faced  each  other,  and  left  a  long 
and  wide  interval  of  thin  white  sand.  You  might  wander  on  and 
look  round  and  round,  and  peep  into  the  crevices  of  the  rocks  and 
discover  nothing  that  acknowledged  the  influence  of  the  seasons. 
There  was  no  spring,  no  summer,  no  autumn  :  and  the  winter's 
snow,  that  would  have  been  lovely,  fell  not  on  these  hot  rocks  and 
scorching  sands.  Never  morning  lark  had  poised  himself  over  this 
desert ;  but  the  huge  serpent  often  hissed  there  beneath  the  talons 
of  the  vulture,  and  the  vulture  screamed,  his  wings  imprisoned 
within  the  coils  of  the  serpent.  The  pointed  and  shattered  sum- 
mits of  the  ridges  of  the  rocks  made  a  rude  mimicry  of  human  con- 
cerns,  arid  seemed  to  prophesy  mutely  of  things  that  then  were 
not  ;  steeples,  and  battlements,  and  ships  with  naked  masts.  As 
far  from  the  wood  as  a  boy  might  sling  a  pebble  of  the  brook, 
there  was  one  rock  by  itself  at  a  small  distance  from  the  main 
ridge.  It  had  been  precipitated  there  perhaps  by  the  groan  which 
the  Earth  uttered  when  our  first  father  fell.  Before  you  ap- 
proached, it  appeared  to  lie  flat  on  the  ground,  but  its  base 
slanted  from  its  point,  and  between  its  point  and  the  sands  a  tall 
man  might  stand  upright.  It  was  here  that  Enos  had  found  the 


228  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

pitcher  and  cake,  and  to  this  place  he  led  his  father.  But  ere 
they  had  reached  the  rock  they  beheld  a  human  shape  :  his  back 
was  towards  them,  and  they  were  advancing  unperceived,  when 
they  heard  him  smite  his  breast  arid  cry  aloud,  '  Woe,  is  me  !  woe, 
is  me  !  I  must  never  die  again,  and  yet  I  am  perishing  with  thirst 
and  hunger.' 

Pallid,  as  the  reflection  of  the  sheeted  lightning  on  the  heavy- 
sailing  night-cloud,  became  the  face  of  Cain ;  but  the  child  Enos 
took  hold  of  the  shaggy  skin,  his  father's  robe,  and  raised  his  eyes 
to  his  father,  and  listening  whispered,  '  Ere  yet  I  could  speak,  I 
am  sure,  O  my  father,  that  I  heard  that  voice.  Have  not  I  often 
said  that  I  remembered  a  sweet  roice.  O  my  father  !  this  is  it : ' 
and  Cain  trembled  exceedingly.  The  voice  was  sweet  indeed,  but 
it  was  thin  and  querulous  like  that  of  a  feeble  slave  in  misery, 
who  despairs  altogether,  yet  cannot  refrain  himself  from  weeping 
and  lamentation.  And  behold!  Enos  glided  forward,  and  creep- 
ing softly  round  the  base  of  the  rock,  stood  before  the  stranger, 
and  looked  up  into  his  face.  And  the  Shape  shrieked,  and  turned 
round,  arid  Cain  beheld  him,  that  his  limbs  and  his  face  were  those 
of  his  brother  ABEL  whom  he  had  killed !  And  Cain  stood  like 
one  who  struggles  in  his  sleep  because  of  the  exceeding  terribleness 
of  a  dream. 

Thus  as  he  stood  in  eilence  and  darkness  of  Soul,  the  SHAPE 
fell  at  his  feet,  and  embrr.  ed  his  knees,  and  cried  out  with  a  bitter 
outcry,  'Thou  eldest  bcrn  of  Adam,  whom  Eve,  my  mother, 
brought  forth,  cease  to  torment  me  !  I  was  feeding  my  flocks  in 
green  pastures  by  the  side  oi'  quiet  rivers,  and  thou  killedst  me ; 
arid  now  I  am  in  misery.'  Tuen  Cain  closed  his  eyes,  and  hid 
them  with  his  hands  ;  and  again  he  opened  his  eyes,  and  looked 
around  him,  and  said  to  Enos,  'What  beholdest  thou?  Didst 
thou  hear  a  voice,  my  son  ?'  '  Yes,  my  father,  I  beheld  a  man  in 
unclean  garments,  and  he  uttered  a  sweet  voice,  full  of  lamenta- 
tion.' Then  Cain  raised  up  the  Shape  that  was  like  Abel,  and 
said,  'The  Creator  of  our  father,  who  had  respect  unto  thee,  and 
unto  thy  offering,  wherefore  hath  he  forsaken  thee?'  Then  the 
Shape  shrieked  a  second  time,  and  rent  his  garment,  and  his  naked 
akin  was  like  the  white  sands  beneath  their  feet  ;  and  he  shrieked 
yet  a  third  time,  and  threw  himself  on  his  face  upon  the  saul  that 
was  black  with  the  shadow  of  the  rock,  and  Cain  arid  Enos  sate 
beside  him  ;  the  child  by  his  right  hand,  and  Cain  by  his  left. 
They  were  all  three  under  the  rock,  and  within  the  shadow.  The 
Shape  that  was  like  Abel  raised  himself  up,  and  spake  to  the 
child  ;  '  I  know  where  the  cold  waters  are  but  I  may  not  drink, 
wherefore  didst  thou  then  take  away  my  pitcher?'  But  Cain 
said,  '  Didst  thou  not  find  favor  in  the  sight  of  the  Lord  thy  God  ?  ' 
The  Shape  answered,  '  The  Lord  is  God  of  the  living  only,  the 


PROSE  IN  RHYME.  229 


dead  have  another  God.'  Then  the  child  Enos  lifted  up  his  eyes 
and  prayed  ;  but  Cain  rejoiced  secretly  in  his  heart.  '  Wretched 
shall  they  be  all  the  days  of  their  mortal  life,'  exclaimed  the 
Shape,  '  who  sacrifice  worthy  and  acceptable  sacrifices  to  the  God 
of  the  dead  ;  but  after  death  their  toil  ceaseth.  Woe  is  me,  for  I 
was  well  beloved  by  the  God  of  the  living,  and  cruel  wert  thou,  O 
my  brother,  who  didst  snatch  me  away  from  his  power  arid  his 
dominion.'  Having  uttered  these  words,  he  rose  suddenly,  and 
fled  over  the  sands  ;  and  Cain  said  in  his  heart,  '  The  curse  of  the 
Lord  is  on  me ;  but  who  is  the  God  of  the  dead  ? '  and  he  ran  after 
the  Shape,  and  the  Shape  fled  shrieking  over  the  sands,  and  the 
sands  rose  like  white  mists  behind  the  steps  of  Cain,  but  the  feet 
of  him  that  was  like  Abel  disturbed  not  the  sands.  He  greatly 
outran  Cain,  and  turning  short  he  wheeled  round,  and  came 
again  to  the  rock  where  they  had  been  sitting,  arid  where  Enos 
still  stood  ;  and  the  child  caught  hold  of  his  garment  as  he  passed 
by  and  he  fell  upon  the  ground.  And  Cain  stopped,  and  behold- 
ing him  not,  said,  '  he  has  passed  into  the  dark  woods,'  arid  he 
walked  slowly  back  to  the  rocks  ;  and  when  he  reached  it  the 
child  told  him  that  he  had  caught  hold  of  his  garment  as  he 
passed  by,  and  that  the  man  had  fallen  upon  the  ground  ;  arid 
Cain  once  more  sat  beside  him,  and  said,  'Abel,  my  brother,  I 
would  lament  for  thee,  but  that  the  spirit  within  me  is  withered, 
and  burnt  up  with  extreme  agony.  Now,  I  pray  thee,  by  thy 
flocks,  and  by  thy  pastures,  and  by  the  quiet  rivers  which  thou 
lovedst,  that  thou  tell  me  all  that  thou  knowest.  Who  is  the  God 
of  the  dead  ?  where  doth  he  make  his  dwelling  ?  what  sacrifices 
are  acceptable  unto  him?  for  I  have  offered,  but  have  riot  been 
received  ;  I  have  prayed,  and  have  not  been  heard  ;  arid  how  can 
I  be  afflicted  more  than  I  already  am  ?  '  The  Shape  arose  and 
answered,  '  O  that  thou  hadst  had  pity  on  me  as  I  will  have  pity 
on  thee.  Follow  me,  Son  of  Adam  !  and  bring  thy  child  with  thee  !  ' 
And  they  three  passed  over  the  white  sands  between  the  rocks, 
silent  as  the  shadows. 


ZAPOLYA : 

A  CHRISTMAS  TALE, 

IN  TWO    PARTS. 

Dip  wpi  xpr)  roiaOra  Aey eu- 


APUD  ATHENJSUM. 


PART  I. 
THE  PRELUDE, 

ENTITLED 

'THE  USURPER'S  FORTUNE.' 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

THE  form  of  the  following  dramatic  poem  is  in  humble  imitation  of  the  Winter's 
Tale  of  Shakspeare,  except  that  I  have  called  the  first  part  a  Prelude  instead  of  a 
first  Act.  as  a  somewhat  nearer  resemblance  to  the  plan  of  the  ancients,  of  which  out; 
•pedmen  is  left  us  in  the  JEschylian  Trilogy  of  the  Agamemnon,  the  Orestes,  and  the 
Euuienides.  Though  a  matter  of  form  merely,  yet  two  plays,  on  different  periods  of 
the  same  tale,  might  seem  less  bold,  than  an  interval  of  twenty  years  between  a  first 
»rd  second  act.  This  is,  however,  in  mere  obedience  to  custom.  The  effect  does  not, 
in  reality,  at  all  df pend  on  the  Time  of  the  interval  ;  but  on  a  very  different  principle. 
There  are  cases  in  whjch  an  interval  of  twenty  hours  between  the  acts  would  have  a 
worse  effect  (i.  e.  render  the  imagination  less  disposed  to  take  the  position  required) 
than  twenty  years  in  other  cases.  For  the  rest,  I  shall  be  well  content  if  my  readem 
#111  take  it  up,  read  and  judge  it,  as  a  Christmas  tale. 

S.  T.  COLERIDGE. 


CHARACTERS. 

EMEBICK       Usurping  King  of  Illyrf*. 

RAAB  KIUPRILI An  iftyrian  Chieftain. 

CASIMIR         Son  of  Kiuprili. 

CHEF  RAOOZZI       A  Military  Commander. 

ZAPOLYA       Queen  of  Illyria. 


ZAPOLYA.  231 


SCENE  I. 

'Front  of  the  Palace  with  a  magnificent  Colonnade.  On  one  side 
a  military  Guard-house.  Sentries  pacing  backward  and  for- 
ward  before  the  Palace.  CHEF  RAGOZZI,  at  the  door  of  the 
Guard-house,  as  looking  forwards  at  some  object  in  the  distance. 

CHEF  RAGOZZI. 

MY  eyes  deceive  me  not,  it  must  be  he. 

Who  but  our  chief,  my  more  than  father,  who 

But  Raab  Kiuprili  moves  with  such  a  gait  ? 

Lo  !  e'en  this  eager  and  unwonted  haste 

Put  agitates,  not  quells,  its  majesty. 

My  patron  !  my  commander  !  yes,  'tis  he  ! 

Call  out  the  guards.     The  Lord  Kiuprili  comes. 

Drums  beat,  &c.,  the  Guard  turns  out.    Enter  RAAB  KIUPRILI. 
RAAB  KIUPRILI.  (Making  a  signal  to  stop  the  drums,  cfcc.) 

Silence  !  enough  !     This  is  no  time,  young  friend  I 

For  ceremonious  dues.     The  summoning  drum, 

Th'  air-shattering  trumpet,  and  the  horseman's  clatter, 

Are  insults  to  a  dying  sovereign's  ear. 

Soldiers,  'tis  well !     Retire  !  your  General  greets  you, 

His  loyal  fellow-warriors.  [Guards  retire 

CHEF  RAGOZZI. 

Pardon  my  surprise. 

Thus  sudden  from  the  camp,  and  unattended  1 
What  may  these  wonders  prophesy  ? 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

Tell  me  first, 
How  fares  the  king  ?    His  Majesty  still  lives  ? 

CHEF  RAGOZZI. 

We  know  no  otherwise  ;  but  Emerick's  friends 
(And  none  but  they  approach  him)  scoff  at  hope. 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

Ragozzi  !  I  have  reared  thee  from  a  child, 
And  as  a  child  have  reared  thee.     Whence  this  air 
Of  mystery?     That  face  was  wont  to  open 
Clear  as  the  morning  to  me,  showing  all  things. 
Hide  nothing  from  me. 


33 2  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


CHEF  RAGOZZI. 

0  most  loved,  most  honored, 

The  mystery,  that  struggles  in  my  looks, 
Betrayed  my  whole  tale  to  thee,  if  it  told  thee 
That  I  am  ignorant ;  but  fear  the  worst. 
And.  mystery  is  contagious.     All  things  here 
Are  full  of  motion  :  and  yet  all  is  silent : 
And  bad  men's  hopes  infect  the  good  with  fears. 

RAAB  KIUPRILI.  (His  hand  to  his  heart.) 

1  have  trembling  proof  within,  how  true  thou  speakest. 

CHEF  RAGOZZI. 

That  tne  Prince  Emerick  feasts  the  soldiery. 
Gives  splendid  arms,  pays  the  commander's  debts, 
And  (it  is  whispered)  by  sworn  promises 
Makes  himself  debtor — hearing  this,  thou  hast  heard 

All (then  in  a  subdued  and  saddened  voice.) 

But  what  my  lord  will  learn  too  soon  himself. 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

Ha  ? — Well  then,  let  it  come  !     Worse  scarce  can  come. 
This  letter  written  by  the  trembling  hand 
Of  royal  ANDREAS  calls  me  from  the  camp 
To  his  immediate  presence.     It  appoints  me, 
The  Queen,  and  Emerick,  guardians  of  the  realm, 
And  of  the  royal  infant.     Day  by  day, 
Robbed  of  ZAPOLYA'S  soothing  cares,  the  king 
Yearns  only  to  behold  one  precious  boon, 
And  with  his  life  breathe  forth  a  father's  blessing. 

CHEF  RAGOZZI. 

Remember  you,  my  lord  !   that  Hebrew  leech, 
Whose  face  so  much  distempered  you  ? 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

Barzoni  ? 

I  held  him  for  a  spy  ;  but  the  proof  failing 
HMoiv  courteously,  I  own,  than  pleased  myself) 
I  feent  him  from  the  camp. 

CHEF  RAGOZZI. 

To  him  in  chief, 
Prince  Emerick  trusts  his  royal  brother's  health. 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 
Uide  nothing,  I  conjure  you  !     What  of  him  ? 


ZAPOLYA.  233 


CHEF  RAGOZZI. 

With  pomp  of  words  beyond  a  soldier's  cunning, 
And  shrugs  and  wrinkled  brow,  he  smiles  and  whispers  • 
Talks  in  dark  words  of  women's  fancies  ;  hints 
That  'twere  a  useless  and  a  cruel  zeal 
To  rob  a  dying  man  of  any  hope, 
However  vain,  that  soothes  him  :  and,  in  fine, 
Denies  all  chance  of  offspring  from  the  Queen. 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

The  venomous  snake  !     My  heel  was  on  its  head, 
And  (fool !)  I  did  not  crush  it ! 

CHEF  RAGOZZI. 

Nay,  he  fears, 
Zapoiya  will  not  long  survive  her  husband. 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

Manifest  treason  !     Even  this  brief  delay 
Half  makes  me  an  accomplice — (If  he  live,) 

[Is  moving  toward  the  Palace, 
If  he  but  live  and  know  me,  all  may — 

CHEF  RAGOZZI. 

Halt !  [Stops  Mm 

On  pain  of  death,  my  Lord  !  am  I  commanded 
To  stop  all  ingress  to  the  palace. 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

Thou! 

CHEF  RAGOZZI. 
No  Place,  no  Name,  no  Rank  excepted — 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

Thou! 
CHEF  RAGOZZI. 

This  life  of  mine,  O  take  it,  Lord  Kiuprili ! 

1  give  it  as  a  weapon  TO  thy  hands, 

Mine  own  no  longer.     Guardian  of  Illyria, 

Useless  to  thee  'tis  worthless  to  myself. 

Thou  art  the  framer  of  my  nobler  being  : 

Nor  does  there  live  one  virtue  in  my  soul, 

One  honorable  hope,  but  calls  thee  father. 

Yet  ere  thou  dost  resolve,  know  that  yon  palace 

Is  guarded  from  within,  that  each  access 


234  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

Is  thronged  by  armed  conspirators,  watched  by  Ruffians 
Pampered  with  gifts,  and  hot  upon  the  spoil 
Which  that  false  promiser  still  trails  before  them. 
I  ask  but  this  one  boon — reserve  my  life 
Till  I  can  lose  it  for  the  realm  and  thee  1 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

My  heart  is  rent  asunder.     O  my  country, 
O  fallen  Illyria,  stand  I  here  spell-bound  ? 
Did  my  King  love  me  ?     Did  I  earn  his  love  ? 
Have  we  embraced  as  brothers  would  embrace  ? 
Was  I  his  Arm,  his  Thunder-bolt  ?     And  now 
Must  I,  hag-ridden,  pant  as  in  a  dream  ? 
Or,  like  an  eagle,  whose  strong  wings  press  up 
Against  a  coiling  serpent's  folds,  can  I 
Strike  but  for  mockery,  and  with  restless  beak 
Gore  my  own  breast  ? — Ragozzi,  thou  art  faithful  ? 

CHEF  RAGOZZI. 

Here  before  Heaven  1  dedicate  my  faith 
To  the  royal  line  of  Andreas. 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

Hark,  Ragozzi ! 

Guilt  is  a  timorous  thing  ere  perpetration : 
Despair  alone  makes  wicked  men  be  bold. 
Come  thou  with  me  !     They  have  heard  my  voice  in  flight, 
Have  faced  round,  terror-struck,  and  feared  no  longer 
The  whistling  javelins  of  their  fell  pursuers. 
Ha  1  what  is  this  ? 

[Black  Flag  displayed  from  the  Tower  of  the  Palace :  a 

Death-bell  tolls,  &c. 
Vengeance  of  Heaven  !     He  is  dead. 

CHEF  RAGOZZI. 

At  length  then  'tis  announced.     Alas  !  I  fear, 
That  these  black  death-flags  are  but  treason's  signals. 

RAAB  KIUPRILI.  (looking  forwards  anxiously.) 
A  prophecy  too  soon  fulfilled  !     See  yonder ! 
O  rank  and  ravenous  wolves  !  the  death-bell  echoes 
Still  in  the  doleful  air — and  see  1  they  come. 

CHEF  RAGOZZI. 

Precise  and  faithful  in  their  villainy 
Even  to  the  moment  that  the  master  traitor 
Had  pre-ordained  them. 


ZAPOL  YA.  235 


RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

Was  it  over-haste, 

Or  is  it  scorn,  that  in  this  race  of  treason 
Their  guilt  thus  drops  its  mask,  and  blazons  forth 
Their  infamous  plot  even  to  an  idiot's  sense. 

CHEF  RAGOZZI. 

Doubtless  the/  deem  Heaven  too  usurped !     Heaven's  justice 
Bought  like  themselves  ! 

[During  this  conversation  music  is  heard,  first  solemn  and 
funereal,  and  then  changing  to  spirited  and  triumphal. 

Being  equal  all  in  crime 
Do  you  press  on,  ye  spotted  parricides  ! 
For  the  one  sole  pre-eminence  yet  doubtful, 
The  prize  of  foremost  impudence  in  guilt  ? 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

The  bad  man's  cunning  still  prepares  the  way 
For  its  own  outwitting.     I  applaud,  Ragozzi ! 

[musing  to  himself — then 
Ragozzi !  I  applaud, 

In  thee,  the  virtuous  hope  that  dares  look  onward, 
And  keeps  the  life-spark  warm  of  future  action 
Beneath  the  cloak  of  patient  sufferance. 
Act  and  appear,  as  time  and  prudence  prompt  thee : 
I  shall  not  misconceive  the  part  thou  playest. 
Mine  is  an  easier  part — to  brave  the  Usurper. 

[Enter  a  procession  of  Emerick's  Adherents,  Nobles,  Chisf- 
tains,  and  Soldiers,  with  Music.  They  advance  toward 
the  front  of  the  Stage.  Kiuprili  makes  the  signal  for 
them  to  stop. — The  Music  ceases. 

LEADER  OF  THE  PROCESSION. 
The  Lord  Kiuprili ! — Welcome  from  the  camp. 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

Brave  magistrates  and  chieftains  of  Illyria, 

In  good  time  come  ye  hither,  if  ye  come 

As  loyal  men  with  honorable  purpose 

To  mourn  what  can  alone  be  mourned  ;  but  chiefly 

To  enforce  the  last  commands  of  royal  Andreas 

And  shield  the  Queen,  Zapolya  :  haply  making 

The  mother's  joy  light  up  the  widow's  tears. 


COLERIDGE  >S  POEMS. 


LEADER. 

Our  purpose  demands  speed.     Grace  our  procession  : 
A  warrior  best  will  greet  a  warlike  king. 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

Tli  is  patent  written  by  your  lawful  king, 
(Lo  !  his  own  seal  and  signature  attesting,) 
Appoints  as  guardians  of  his  realm  and  offspring, 
The  Queen,  and  the  Prince  Emerick,  and  myself. 

[  Voices  of  Live  King  Emerick  I  an  Emerick  I  an  Emerick  ' 
What  means  this  clamor?     Are  these  madmen's  voices  ? 
Or  is  some  knot  of  riotous  slanderers  leagued 
To  infamize  the  name  of  the  king's  brother 
With  a  lie  black  as  Hell  ?  unmanly  cruelty, 
Ingratitude,  and  most  unnatural  treason  ?     [Murmurs. 
What  mean  these  murmurs  ?     Dare  then  any  here 
Proclaim  Prince  Emerick  a  spotted  traitor  ? 
One  that  has  taken  from  you  your  sworn  faith, 
And  given  you  in  return  a  Judas'  bribe, 
Infamy  now,  oppression  in  reversion, 
And  Heaven's  inevitable  curse  hereafter  ? 

[Loud    murmurs,  followed  by  cries  —  Emerick!     No  Baby 

Prince  I    No  changeling  ! 
Yet  bear  with  me  awhile  !     Have  I  for  this 
Bled  for  your  safety,  conquered  for  your  honor  I 
Was  it  for  this,  Illyrians  !  that  I  forded 
Your  thaw-swoln  torrents,  when  the  shouldering  ice 
Fought  with  a  foe,  and  stained  its  jagged  points 
With  gore  from  wounds  I  felt  not?    Did  the  blast 
Beat  on  this  body,  frost-and-famine-numbed, 
Till  my  hard  flesh  distinguished  not  itself 
From  the  insensate  mail,  its  fellow-  warrior  ? 
And  have  I  brought  home  with  me  VICTORY, 
And  with  her,  hand  in  hand,  firm-footed  PEACE, 
Her  countenance  twice  lighted  up  with  glory, 
As  if  I  had  charmed  a  goddess  down  from  Heaven  ? 
But  these  will  flee  abhorrent  from  the  throne 
Of  usurpation  ! 

[Murmurs  increase  —  and  cries  of  Onward  !  onward! 

Have  you  then  thrown  off  shame, 
And  shall  not  a  dear  friend,  a  loyal  subject, 
Throw  off  all  fear  ?     I  tell  ye,  the  fair  trophies 
Valiantly  wrested  from  a  valiant  foe, 
Love's  natural  offerings  to  a  rightful  king, 
Will  hang  as  ill  on  this  usurping  traitor, 


Z A  POLY  A.  237 

This  brother-blight,  this  Emerick,  as  robes 
Of  gold  plucked  from  the  images  of  gods 
Upon  a  sacrilegious  robber's  back. 

{During  the  last  four  lines,  enter  Lord  Casimir,  with  ex- 
pressions of  anger  and  alarm. 

CASIMIR. 

Who  is  this  factious  insolent,  that  dares  brand 
The  elected  King,  our  chosen  Emerick  ? 

[Starts — then  approaching  with  timid  respect. 
My  Father  1 

RAAB  KIUPRILI.   (turning  away.} 

Casimir  !  He,  he  a  traitor  ! 
Too  soon  indeed,  Ragozzi !  have  I  learnt  it.  [aside. 

CASIMIR.  (with  reverence.) 
My  father  and  my  lord ! 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

I  know  thee  not ! 

LEADER. 

Yet  the  remembrancing  did  sound  right  filial. 
RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

A  holy  name  and  words  of  natural  duty 

Are  blasted  by  a  thankless  traitor's  utterance. 

CASIMIR. 

O  hear  me,  Sire !  not  lightly  have  I  sworn 

Homage  to  Emerick.     Illyria's  sceptre 

Demands  a  manly  hand,  a  warrior's  grasp. 

The  queen  Zapolya's  self-expected  offspring 

At  least  is  doubtful :  and  of  all  our  nobles, 

The  king,  inheriting  his  brother's  heart, 

Hath  honored  us  the  most.     Your  rank,  my  lord  ! 

Already  eminent,  is — all  it  can  be — 

Confirmed  :  and  me  the  king's  grace  hath  appointed 

Chief  of  his  council  and  the  lord  high  steward. 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 
(Bought  by  a  bribe  !  )     I  know  thee  now  still  less. 

CASIMIR.  (struggling  with  his  passion.} 
So  much  of  Raab  Kiuprili's  blood  flows  here, 


238  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

That  no  power,  save  that  holy  name  of  f&ther, 
Could  shield  the  man  who  so  dishonored;  me. 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

The  son  of  Raab  Kiuprili  a  bought  bond-slave, 
Guilt's  pander,  treason's  mouth-piece,  a  gay  parrot, 
Schooled  to  shrill  forth  his  feeder's  usurped  titles, 
And  scream,  Long  live  king  Emerick ! 

LEADERS. 

Ay,  king  Emerick  I 
Stand  back,  my  lord  !    Lead  us,  or  let  us  pass. 

SOLDIER. 
Nay,  let  the  general  speak ! 

SOLDIERS. 
Hear  him  !  Hear  him  ! 

RAAB   KIUPRILI. 

Hear  me, 

Assembled  lords  and  warriors  of  Illyria, 
Hear,  and  avenge  me !     Twice  ten  years  have  I 
Stood  in  your  presence,  honored  by  the  king, 
Beloved  and  trusted.     Is  there  one  among  you, 
Accuses  Raab  Kiuprili  of  a  bribe  ? 
Or  one  false  whisper  in  his  sovereign's  ear  ? 
Who  here  dares  charge  me  with  an  orphan's  rights 
Outfaced,  or  widow's  plea  left  undefended  ? 
Arid  shall  I  now  be  branded  by  a  traitor, 
A  bought  bribed  wretch,  who,  being  called  my  son, 
Doth  libel  a  chaste  matron's  name,  and  plant 
Hensbane  and  aconite  on  a  mother's  grave? 
The  underling  accomplice  of  a  robber, 
That  from  a  widow  and  a  widow's  offspring 
Would  steal  their  heritage  ?     To  Gr<sd  a  rebel, 
And  to  the  common  father  of  his  country 
A  recreant  in  grate  ! 

CASIMIR. 

Sire  I  your  words  grow  dangerous. 
High-flown  romantic  fancies  ill-beseem 
Your  age  and  wisdom.     'Tis  a  statesman's  virtue, 
To  guard  his  country's  safety  by  what  means 
It  best  may  be  protected — come  what  will 
Of  these  monk's  morals! 


ZAPOL  YA.  239 


RAAB  KIUPRILI.  (aside.) 

Ha  !  the  elder  Brutus 

Made  his  soul  iron,  though  his  sons  repented. 
They  BOASTED  not  their  baseness,      [starts,  and  draws  his  sword. 

Infamous  changeling  ! 
Recant  this  instant,  and  swear  loyalty, 
And  strict  obedience  to  thy  sovereign's  will ; 
Or,  by  the  spirit  of  departed  Andreas, 

Thou  diest 

[Chiefs,  &c.i  rush  to  interpose;  during  the  tumult  enter 
Emerick,  alarmed. 

EMERICK. 

Call  out  the  guard  !    Ragozzi !  seize  the  assassin. — 

Kiuprili  ?     Ha  ! [with  lowered  voice,  at  the  same  time  with  one 

hand  making  signs  to  the  guard  to  retire. 

Pass  on,  friends  !  to  the  palace. 

[Music  recommences. — The  Procession  passes  into  the  Palace. 
— During  which  time  Emerick  and  Kiuprili  regard  each 
other  steadfastly. 

EMERICK. 

What  ?  Raab  Kiuprili  ?    What  ?  a  father's  sword 
Against  his  own  son's  breast  ? 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

'Twould  best  excuse  him, 
Were  he  thy  son,  Prince  Emerick.     /  abjure  him. 

EMERICK. 

This  is  my  thanks,  then,  that  I  have  commenced 
A  reign  to  which  the  free  voice  of  the  nobles 
Hath  called  me,  and  the  people,  by  regards 
Of  love  and  grace  to  Raab  Kiuprili's  house  ? 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 
What  right  hadst  thou,  Prince  Emerick,  to  bestow  them  ? 

EMERICK. 
By  what  right  dares  Kiuprili  question  me  ? 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

By  a  right  common  to  loyal  subjects — 
To  me  a  duty  !     As  the  realm's  co-regent 
Appointed  by  our  sovereign's  last  free  act, 
Writ  by  himself.— (Grasping  the  patent.} 


2 40  COLERIDGE 'S  POEMS. 

EMERICK.  (with,  a  contemptuous  sneer.) 
Ay ! — Writ  in  a  delirium  ! 

RAAB  KIUPRLLI. 

I  likewise  ask,  by  whose  authority 
The  access  to  the  sovereign  was  refused  ine  ? 

EMERICK. 

By  whose  authority  dared  the  general  leave 
His  camp  and  army,  like  a  fugitive  ? 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

A  fugitive,  who,  with  victory  for  his  comrade, 
Ran,  open-eyed,  upon  the  face  of  death  ! 
A  fugitive,  with  no  other  fear,  than  bodements 
To  be  belated  in  a  loyal  purpose — 
At  the  command,  Prince  !  of  my  king  and  thine, 
Hither  I  came  :  and  now  again  require 
Audience  of  Queen  Zapolya  ;  and  (the  States 
Forthwith  convened)  that  thou  dost  show  at  large, 
On  what  ground  of  defect  thou'st  dared  annul 
This  thy  king's  last  and  solemn  act — hast  dared 
Ascend  the  throne,  of  which  the  law  had  named, 
And  conscience  should  have  made  thee,  a  protector. 

EMERICK. 

A  sovereign's  ear  ill  brooks  a  subject's  questioning \ 
Yet  for  thy  past  well-doing — and  because 
'Tis  hard  to  erase  at  once  the  fond  belief 
Long  cherished,  that  Illyria  had  in  thee 
No  dreaming  priest's  slave,  but  a  Roman  lover 
Of  her  true  weal  and  freedom — arid  for  this,  too, 
That,  hoping  to  call  forth  to  the  broad  day-light 
And  fostering  breeze  of  glory  all  deservings, 
I  still  had  placed  thee  foremost. 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

Prince !  I  listen. 

EMERICK. 

Unwillingly  I  tell  thee,  that  Zapolya, 
Maddened  with  grief,  her  erring  hopes  proved  idle — 

CASIMIR. 
Sire  !  speak  the  whole  truth  !    Say,  her  fraud's  detected  I 


ZAPOLYA.  24' 


EMERICK. 
According  to  the  sworn  attests  in  council 

Of  her  physician 

RAAB  KIUPRILI.  (aside.) 
Yes  !  the  Jew,  Barzoni  I 

EMERICK. 

Under  the  imminent  risk  of  death  she  lies, 
Or  irrecoverable  loss  of  reason, 
If  known  friend's  face  or  voice  renew  the  frenzy. 

CASIMIR.  (to  Kiuprili.\ 

Trust  me,  my  lord  !  a  woman's  trick  has  duped  you— 
Us  too — but  most  of  all,  the  sainted  Andreas. 
Even  for  his  own  fair  fame,  his  Grace  prays  hourly 
For  her  recovery,  that  (the  States  convened) 
She  may  take  counsel  of  her  friends. 

EMERICK. 

Right,  CasimirJ 

Receive  my  pledge,  lord  general.     It  shall  stand 
In  her  own  will  to  appear  and  voice  her  claims  ; 
Or  (which  in  truth  I  hold  the  wiser  course) 
With  all  the  past  passed  by,  as  family  quarrels, 
Let  the  Queen  Dowager,  with  un blenched  honors, 
Resume  her  state,  our  first  Illyrian  matron. 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

Prince  Emerick !  you  speak  fairly,  and  your  pledge  too 
Is  such,  as  well  would  suit  an  honest  meaning. 

CASIMIR. 

My  lord  !  you  scarce  know  half  his  Grace's  goodness. 
The  wealthy  heiress,  high-born  fair  Sarolta, 
Bred  in  the  convent  of  our  noble  ladies, 
Her  relative,  the  venerable  abbess, 
Hath,  at  his  Grace's  urgence,  wooed  and  won  for  ine. 

EMERICK. 

Long  may  the  race,  and  long  may  that  name  flourish, 
Which  your  heroic  deeds,  brave  chief,  have  rendered 
Dear  and  illustrious  to  all  true  Illyrians. 

RAAB  KIUPRILI.  (sternly.) 
The  longest  line,  that  ever  tracing  herald 
Or  found  or  feigned,  placed  by  a  beggar's  soul 

16 


242  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


Hath  but  a  mushroom's  date  in  the  comparison : 
And  with  the  soul,  the  conscience  is  co-eval, 
Yea,  the  soul's  essence. 

EMERICK. 

Conscience,  good  my  lord, 
Is  but  the  pulse  of  reason.     Is  it  conscience, 
That  a  free  nation  should  be  handed  down, 
Like  the  dull  clods  beneath  our  feet,  by  chance 
And  the  blind  law  of  lineage  ?    That  whether  infant, 
Or  man  matured,  a  wise  man  or  an  idiot, 
Hero  or  natural  coward,  shall  have  guidance 
Of  a  free  people's  destiny,  should  fall  out 
In  the  mere  lottery  of  a  reckless  nature, 
Where  few  the  prizes  and  the  blanks  are  countless  ? 
Or  haply  that  a  nation's  fate  should  hang 
On  the  bald  accident  of  a  midwife's  handling 
The  unclosed  sutures  of  an  infant's  skull? 

CASIMIR. 

What  better  claim  can  sovereign  wish  or  need, 
Than  the  free  voice  of  men  who  love  their  country  ? 
Those  chiefly  who  have  fought  for  't  ?     Who  by  right 
Claim  for  their  monarch  one,  who  having  cbeyed, 
So  hath  best  learnt  to  govern  :  who,  having  suffered, 
Can  feel  for  each  brave  sufferer  and  reward  him  ? 
Whence  sprang  the  name  of  Emperor  ?     Was  it  not 
By  nature's  fiat  ?    In  the  storm  of  triumph, 
'Mid  warriors'  shouts,  did  her  oracular  voice 
Make  itself  heard  :  Let  the  commanding  spirit 
Possess  the  station  of  command  ! 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

Prince  Emerick 
Your  cause  will  prosper  best  in  your  own  pleading. 

EMERICK.  (Aside  to  Casimir.) 

Ragozzi  was  thy  school-mate— a  bold  spirit ! 
Bind  him  to  us !— Thy  Father  thaws  apace  !     [then  aloud. 
Leave  us  awhile,  my  lord  !— Your  friend,  Ragozzi, 
Whom  you  have  not  yet  seen  since  his  return, 
Commands  the  guard  to-day. 

[Casimir  retires  to  the  Guard-house  ;  and  after  a  time 
appears  before  it  with  Chef  Ragozzi. 
We  are  alone. 

What  further  pledge  or  proof  desires  Kiuprili  ? 
Then,  with  your  assent  - 


Z A  POLY  A.  243 


RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

Mistake  not  for  assent 
The  unquiet  silence  of  a  stern  Resolve 

Throttling  the  impatient  voice.     I  have  heard  thee,  Prince ! 
And  I  have  watched  thee,  too  ;  but  have  small  faith  in 
A  plausible  tale  told  with  a  flitting  eye. 

[Emerick  turns  as  about  to  call  for  the  Guard. 
In  the  next  moment  I  am  in  thy  power, 
In  this  thou  art  in  mine.     Stir  but  a  step, 
Or  make  one  sign — I  swear  by  this  good  sword, 
Thou  diest  that  instant. 

EMEBICK. 
Ha,  ha !— Well,  Sir  !— Conclude  your  homily. 

RAAB  KIUPRILI.  (in  a  somewhat  suppressed  voice.) 
A  tale  which,  whether  true  or  false,  comes  guarded 
Against  all  means  of  proof,  detects  itself. 
The  Queen  mewed  up — this  too  from  anxious  care 
And  love  brought  forth  of  a  sudden,  a  twin  birth 
With  thy  discovery  of  her  plot  to  rob  thee 
Of  a  rightful  throne  ! — Mark  how  the  scorpion,  falsehood, 
Coils  round  in  its  perplexity,  arid  fixes 
Its  sting  in  its  own  head  ? 

EMERICK. 

Aye  !  to  the  mark  ! 

RAAB  KIUPRILI.     (aloud:  he  and  Emerick  standing  at 

equi-distance  from  the  Palace  and  the  Guard- House.) 
Hadst  thou  believed  thine  own  tale,  hadst  thou  fancied 
Thyself  the  rightful  successor  of  Andreas, 
Wouldst  thou  have  pilfered  from  our  school-boys'  themes 
These  shallow  sophisms  of  a  popular  choice  f 
What  people  ?     How  convened  ?  or,  if  convened, 
Must  not  the  magic  power  that  charms  together 
Millions  of  men  in  council,  needs  have  power 
To  win  or  wield  them  ?     Better,  O  far  better, 
Shout  forth  thy  titles  to  yon  circling  mountains, 
And  with  a  thousand-fold  reverberation 
Make  the  rocks  flatter  thee,  and  the  volleying  air, 
Unbribed,  shout  back  to  thee,  King  Ernerick  ! 
.By  wholesome  laws  to  embank  the  sovereign  power, 
To  deepen  by  restraint,  and  by  prevention 
Of  lawless  will  to  amass  and  guide  the  flood 
In  its  majestic  channel,  is  man's  task 
And  the  true  patriot's  glory  !     In  all  else 
Men  safelier  trust  to  Heaven,  than  to  themselves 


344  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


When  least  themselves  in  the  mad  whirl  of  crowds 
Where  folly  is  contagious,  arid  too  oft 
Even  wise  men  leave  their  better  sense  at  home 
To  chide  and  wonder  at  them  when  returned. 

EMERICK.  (aloud.} 

Is't  thus,  thou  scoff'st  the  people  ?  most  of  all, 
The  soldiers,  the  defenders  of  the  people  ? 

RAAB  KIUPRILI.  (aloud.) 

0  most  of  all,  most  miserable  nation, 

For  whom  the  Imperial  power,  enormous  bubble  ! 

Is  blown  and  kept  aloft,  or  burst  and  shattered 

By  the  bribed  breath  of  a  lewd  soldiery  ! 

Chiefly  of  such,  as  from  the  frontiers  far 

(Which  is  the  noblest  station  of  true  warriors), 

In  rank  licentious  idleness  beleaguer 

City  and  Court,  a  venomed  thorn  i'  the  side 

Of  virtuous  kings,  the  tyrant's  slave  and  tyrant, 

Still  ravening  for  fresh  largess  !     But  with  such 

What  title  claim'st  thou,  save  thy  birth  ?     What  merits 

Which  many  a  liegeman  may  not  plead  as  well, 

Brave  though  I  grant  thee  ?     If  a  life  outlabored, 

Head,  heart,  and  fortunate  arm,  in  watch  and  war, 

For  the  land's  fame  and  weal ;  if  large  acquests, 

Made  honest  by  the  aggression  of  the  foe, 

And  whose  best  praise  is,  that  they  bring  us  safety  ; 

If  victory,  doubly-wreathed,  whose  under-garland 

Of  laurel-leaves  looks  greener  and  more  sparkling 

Thro'  the  gray  olive-branch  ;  if  these,  Prince  Emerick  ! 

Give  the  true  title  to  the  throne,  not  thou — 

No  !  (let  Illyria,  let  the  infidel  enemy 

Be  judge  and  arbiter  between  us  ! )  I, 

1  were  the  rightful  sovereign  ! — 

EMERICK. 

I  have  faith 

That  thou  both  think'st  and  hop'st  it.    Fair  Zapolya, 
A  provident  lady — 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

Wretch  beneath  all  answer ! 

EMERICK. 
Offers  at  once  the  royal  bed  and  throne  ! 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 
To  be  a  kingdom's  bulwark,  a  king's  glory, 


Z A  POLY  A.  245 


Yet  loved  by  bd'th,  and  trusted,  and  trust-worthy, 

Is  more  than  to  be  king  ;  but  see  !  thy  rage 

Fights  with  thy  fear.     I  will  relieve  thee  !  Ho  !        [to  the  Guard. 

EMERICK. 

Not  for  thy  sword,  but  to  entrap  thee,  ruffian  ! 
Thus  long  I  have  listened. — Guard — ho  !  from  the  Pala^o. 

[The  Guard  post  from  the  Guard-house  with  Chef  R  <go?zi  at 
their  head,  and  then  a  number  from  the  Palace — Chef 
Ragozzi  demands  KiupriWs  sword,  and  apprehends 
him. 

CASIMIR. 

0  agony  !  (to  Emerick.}    Sire,  hear  me ! 

[to  Kiuprili,  who  turns  from  him. 

Hear  me,  Father ! 
EMERICK. 

Take  in  arrest  that  traitor  and  assassin  ! 
Who  pleads  for  his  life,  strikes  at  mine,  his  sovereign's. 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

As  the  Co-regent  of  the  Realm,  I  stand 
Amenable  to  none  save  to  the  States 
Met  in  due  course  of  law.     But  ye  are  bond-slaves, 
Yet  witness  ye  that  before  God  and  man 

1  here  impeach  Lord  Emerick  of  foul  treason, 
And  on  strong  grounds  attaint  him  with  suspicion 
Of  murder — 

EMERICK. 
Hence  with  the  madman  ! 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

Your  Queen's  murder, 

The  Royal  orphan's  murder  :  and  to  the  death 
Defy  him ,  as  a  tyrant  and  usurper. 

[Hurried  off  by  Ragozzi  and  the  Guard, 

EMERICK. 

Ere  twice  the  sun  hath  risen,  by  my  sceptre 
This  insolence  shall  be  avenged. 

CASIMIR. 

O  banish  him  ! 

This  infamy  will  crush  me.     O  for  my  sake, 
Banish  him,  my  liege  Lord  ! 


246  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

EMERICK.  (scornfully.) 

What  ?  to  the  army  ? 

Be  calm,  young  friend  !     Naught  shall  be  done  in  anger. 
The  child  o'erpowers  the  man.     In  this  emergence 
I  must  take  counsel  for  us  both.     Retire. 

[Exit  Casimir  in  agitation. 

EMERICK.  (alone,  looks  at  a  Calendar.) 

The  changeful  planet,  now  in  her  decay, 

Dips  down  at  midnight,  to  be  seen  no  more. 

With  her  shall  sink  the  enemies  of  Emerick, 

Cursed  by  the  last  look  of  the  waning  moon  : 

And  my  bright  destiny,  with  sharpened  horns, 

Shall  greet  me  fearless  in  the  new-born  crescent.  [Exit. 

Scene  changes  to  another  mew,  namely,  the  back  of  the  Palace — a 
Wooded  Park,  and  Mountains. — Enter  ZAPOLYA,  with  an  Infant 
in  Arms. 

ZAPOLYA. 

Hush,  dear  one  !  hush  !     My  trembling  arm  disturbs  thee  ! 

Thou,  the  protector  of  the  helpless  !  Thou, 

The  widow's  husband  and  the  orphan's  father, 

Direct  my  steps !     Ah,  whither  ?     O  send  down 

Thy  angel  to  a  houseless  babe  and  mother, 

Driven  forth  into  the  cruel  wilderness  ! 

Hush,  sweet  one  !  Thou  art  no  Hagar's  offspring  : 
Thou  art 

The  rightful  heir  of  an  anointed  king  ! 

What  sounds  are  those  ?     It  is  the  vesper  chaunt 

Of  laboring  men  returning  to  their  home  ! 

Their  queen  has  no  home  !     Hear  me,  heavenly  Father ! 

And  let  this  darkness — 

Be  as  the  shadow  of  thy  outspread  wings 

To  hide  and  shield  us  !     Start'st  thou  in  thy  slumbers ! 

Thou  canst  not  dream  of  savage  Emerick.     Hush  ! 

Betray  not  thy  poor  mother  !  For  if  they  seize  thee 

I  shall  grow  mad  indeed,  and  they'll  believe 

Thy  wicked  uncle's  lie.     Ha  !  what  ?  A  soldier  ? 

[She  starts  back— and  enter  CHEF  RAGOZZI. 

CHEF  RAGOZZI. 

Sare  Heaven  befriends  us.     Well !  he  hath  escaped  ! 
O  rare  tune  of  a  tyrant's  promises 
That  can  enchant  the  serpent  treachery 
From  forth  its  lurking  hole  in  the  heart.     '  Ragozzi  ! 


Z A  POLY  A.  247 


0  brave  Ragozzi  !  Count !  Commander  I  What  not  ? ' 
And  all  this  too  for  nothing  !  a  poor  nothing  ! 
Merely  to  play  the  underling  in  the  murder 

Of  my  best  friend  Kiuprili !     His  own  son — monstrous  ! 

Tyrant !  I  owe  thee  thanks,  and  in  good  hour 

Will  I  repay  thee,  for  that  thou  thought'st  me  too 

A  serviceable  villain.     Could  I  now 

But  gain  some  sure  intelligence  of  the  Queen  : 

Heaven  bless  and  guard  her  ! 

ZAPOLTA.  (coming  fearfully  forward.} 
Art  thou  not  Ragozzi  ? 

CHEF  RAGOZZI. 

The  Queen  !  Now  then  the  miracle  is  full  I 

1  see  Heaven's  wisdom  is  an  over-match 

For  the  devil's  cunning.     This  way,  madam,  haste! 

ZAPOLYA. 

Stay  !  Oh,  no  1  Forgive  me  if  I  wrong  thee  ! 
This  is  thy  sovereign's  child  :  Oh,  pity  us, 
And  be  not  treacherous  !  [Kneeling* 

CHEF  RAGOZZI.  (raising  her.') 
Madam  !  for  mercy's  sake  ! 

ZAPOLYA. 
But  tyrants  have  an  hundred  eyes  and  arms ! 

CHEF  RAGOZZI. 

Take  courage,  madam  !  'Twere  too  horrible 
(I  cannot  do't)  to  swear  I'm  not  a  monster ! — 
Scarce  had  I  barred  the  door  on  Raab  Kiuprili — 

ZAPOLYA. 
Kiuprili!  How? 

CHEF  RAGOZZI. 

There  is  not  time  to  tell  it. — 
The  tyrant  called  me  to  him,  praised  my  zeal — 
(And  be  assured  I  overtopt  his  cunning 
And  seeded  right  zealous.)     But  time  wastes  :  In  fine, 
Bids  me  despatch  my  trustiest  friends,  as  couriers 
With  letters  to  the  army.     The  thought  at  once 
Flashed  on  me.    I  disguised  my  prisoner — 


248  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


ZAPOLYA. 
What,  Raab  Kiuprili  ? 

CHEF  RAGOZZI. 

Yes  !  my  noble  general  I 
I  sent  him  off,  with  Emerick's  own  pacquet, 
Haste  and  post  haste— Prepared  to  follow  him — 

ZAPOLYA. 
Ah,  how  ?  Is  it  joy  or  fear  ?  My  limbs  seem  sinking  I — 

CHEF  RAGOZZI.     (supporting  her.) 
Heaven  still  befriends  us.     I  have  left  my  charger, 
A  gentle  beast  and  fleet,  and  my  boy's  mule, 
One  that  can  shoot  a  precipice  like  a  bird, 
Just  where  the  wood  begins  to  climb  the  mountains. 
The  course  we'll  thread  will  mock  the  tyrant's  guesses, 
Or  scare  the  followers.     Ere  we  reach  the  main  road 
The  Lord  Kiuprili  will  have  sent  a  troop 
To  esoort  me.     Oh,  thrice  happy  when  he  finds 
The  treasure  which  I  convoy ! 

ZAPOLYA. 

One  brief  moment, 

That  praying  for  strength  I  may  have  strength.     This  babe, 
Heaven's  eye  is  on  it,  and  its  innocence 
Is,  as  a  prophet's  prayer,  strong  and  prevailing  ! 
Through  thee,  dear  babe,  the  inspiring  thought  possessed  me, 
When  the  loud  clamor  rose,  and  all  the  palace 
Emptied  itself— (They  sought  my  life,  Ragozzi !  ) 
Like  a  swift  shadow  gliding,  I  made  way 
To  the  deserted  chamber  of  my  lord, — 

[then  to  the  infant 

And  thou  didst  kiss  thy  father's  lifeless  lips, 
And  in  thy  helpless  hand,  sweet  slumberer 
Still  c\asp'st  the  signet  of  thy  royalty. 
As  I  removed  the  seal,  the  heavy  arm 
Dropt  from  the  couch  aslant,  and  the  stiff  finger 
Seemed  pointing  at  my  feet.     Provident  Heaven ! 
Lo,  I  was  standing  on  the  secret  door, 
Which,  through  a  long  descent  where  all  sound  perishes, 

Led  out  beyond  the  palace.     Well  I  knew  it 

But  Andreas  framed  it  not !  He  was  no  tyrant !  ^ 

CHEF  RAGOZZI. 
Haste,  madam :  let  me  take  this  precious  burden  ! 

(He  kneels  as  he  takes  the  child. 


Z A  POLY  A.  249 


ZAPOLYA. 

Take  him  !  And  if  we  be  pursued,  I  charge  thee, 
Flee  thou  and  leave  me !  Flee  and  save  thy  king  ! 

[Then  as  going  off  she  looks  back  on  the  paln.ce. 
Thou  tyrant's  den,  be  called  no  more  a  palace  ! 
The  orphan's  angel  at  the  throne  of  heaven 
Stands  up  against  thee,  and  there  hover  o'er  thee 
A  Queen's,  a  Mother's,  and  a  Widow's  curse. 
Henceforth  a  dragon's  haunt,  fear  and  suspicion 
Stand  sentry  at  thy  portals  !  Faith  and  honor, 
Driven  from  the  throne,  shall  leave  the  attainted  nation  : 
And,  for  the  iniquity  that  houses  in  thee, 
False  glory,  thirst  of  blood,  and  lust  of  rapine 
(Faithful  conjunction  of  malignant  planets) 
Shall  shoot  their  blastments  on  the  land.     The  fathers 
Henceforth  shall  have  no  joy  in  their  young  men, 
And  when  they  cry,  Lo  !  a  male  child  is  born  I 
The  mother  shall  make  answer  with  a  groan. 
For  bloody  usurpation,  like  a  vulture, 
Shall  clog  its  beak  within  Illyria's  heart. 
Remorseless  Siaves  of  a  remorseless  tyrant, 
They  shall  be  mocked  with  sounds  of  liberty, 
And  liberty  shall  be  proclaimed  alone 
To  thee,  O  Fire  !  O  Pestilence  !  O  Sword ! 
Till  vengeance  hath  her  fill. — And  thou,  snatched  hence, 
(Again  to  the  infant.)    Poor  friendless  fugitive  !  with  mother  s 

wailing, 

Offspring  of  Royal  Andreas,  Shalt  return 
With  trump  and  timbrel  clang,  and  popular  shout, 
In  triumph  to  the  palace  of  thy  fathers  !  [Exeunt 


25°  COLERID GE  'S  POEMS. 


PART  II. 
THE  SEQUEL, 

ENTITLED 

'THE  USURPER'S  FATE/ 

1817. 


OLD  BAT HOB Y 
BETHLEN  BATHOBY 
LORD  RUDOLPH   ..  . 
LASKA 
PESTALUTZ 


ADDITIONAL  CHARACTERS. 


A  Mountaineer. 

The  young  Prince  Andreas,  supposed  son  of  Old  Bathory. 

A  Courtier,  but  friend  to  the  Queen's  party. 

Steward  to  Casiinir,  betrothed  to  Glyciue. 

An  Assassin,  in  Emerick's  employ. 

KSomm. 


LADY  SABOLTA    .  .       .  .    Wife  of  Lord  Casimir. 

GLYCINE Orphan  daughter  of  Chef  Ragoasi. 


Between  the  flight  of  the  Queen,  and  the  civil  war  which  immediately  followedj 
and  in  which  Emenck  remained  the  victor,  a  space  of  twenty  years  is  supposed  to  have 
elapsed. 


USURPATION  ENDED; 

OB, 

SHE   COMES  AGAIN. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  I. 

A  Mountainous  Country.    BATHORY'S  Dwelling  at  the  end  of  the 
Stage.    Enter  LADY  SAROLTA  and  GLYCINE. 

GLYCINE. 

WELL  then  !     Our  round  of  charity  is  finished. 
Rost,  Madam !     You  breathe  quick. 


Z A  POLY  A.  251 


SAROLTA. 

What,  tired,  Grlycine? 

No  delicate  court-dame,  but  a  mountaineer 
By  choice  no  less  than  birth,  I  gladly  use 
The  good  strength  nature  gave  me. 

GrLYCINE. 

That  last  cottage 
Is  built  as  if  an  eagle  or  a  raven 
Had  chosen  it  for  her  nest. 

SAROLTA. 

So  many  are 

The  sufferings  which  no  human  aid  can  reach, 
It  needs  must  be  a  duty  doubly  sweet 
To  heal  the  few  we  can.     Well !  let  us  rest. 

GrLYCIXE. 

There?     [Pointing  to  Bathory's  dwelling.     Sarolta   answering, 
points  to  where  she  then  stands- 

SAROLTA. 

Here !     For  on  this  spot  Lord  Casmrir 
Took  his  last  leave.     On  yonder  mountain-ridge 
I  lost  the  misty  image  which  so  long 
Lingered,  01  seemed  at  least  to  linger  on  it. 

GLYfclNE. 

And  what  if  even  now,  on  that  same  ridge, 

A  speck  should  rise,  and  still  enlarging,  lengthening, 

As  it  clomb  downwards,  shape  itself  at  last 

To  o  numerous  cavalcade,  and  spurring  foremost, 

Whc  but  Sarolta's  own  dear  lord  returned 

From  his  high  embassy  ? 

SAROLTA. 

Thou  hast  hit  my  thought ! 
All  the  long  day,  from  yester-morn  to  evening, 
The  restless  hope  fluttered  about  my  heart. 
0  we  are  querulous  creatures !     Little  less 
Than  all  things  can  suffice  to  make  us  happy ; 
And  little  more  than  nothing  is  enough 
To  discontent  us. — Were  he  come,  then  should  I 
Repine  he  had  not  arrived  just  one  day  earlier 
To  keep  his  birth-day  here,  in  his  own  birth-place. 

GLYCIXE. 

But  our  best  sports  belike,  and  gay  processions, 
Would  to  my  lord  have  seemed  but  work-day  sights 
Compared  with  those  the  royal  court  affords. 


252  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


SAROLTA. 

I  have  small  wish  to  see  them.     A  spring  morning 
With  its  wild  gladsome  minstrelsy  of  birds, 
Arid  its  bright  jewelry  of  flowers  and  dew-drops 
(Each  orbed  drop  an  orb  of  glory  in  it), 
Would  put  them  all  in  eclipse.     This  sweet  retirement 
Lord  Casirnir's  wish  alone  would  have  made  sacred ; 
But,  in  good  truth,  his  loving  jealousy 
Did  but  command  what  I  had  else  entreated. 

GLYCINE. 

And  yet  had  I  been  born  Lady  Sarolta, 
Been  wedded  to  the  noblest  of  the  realm, 
So  beautiful  besides,  and  yet  so  stately 

SAROLTA. 
Hush  !     Innocent  flatterer ! 

GLYCINE. 

Nay  !  to  my  poor  fancy 

The  royal  court  would  seem  an  earthly  heaven, 
Made  for  such  stars  to  shine  in,  and  be  gracious. 

SAROLTA. 

So  doth  the  ignorant  distance  still  delude  us ! 
Thy  fancied  heaven,  dear  girl,  like  that  above  thee, 
In  its  mere  self  a  cold,  drear,  colorless  void, 
Seen  from  below  and  in  the  large,  becomes 
The  bright  blue  ether,  and  the  seat  of  gods ! 
Well !  but  this  broil  that  scared  you  from  the  dance  ? 
And  was  not  Laska  there  :  he,  your  betrothed  ? 

GLYCINE. 

Yes,  madam  !  he  was  there.     So  was  the  maypole, 
For  we  danced  round  it. 

SAROLTA. 
Ah,  Glycine !  why, 
Why  did  you  then  betroth  yourself  ? 

GLYCINE. 

Because 
My  own  dear  lady  wished  it !  'twas  you  asked  me  I 

SAROLTA. 

Yes,  at  my  lord's  request,  but  never  wished, 
My  poor  affectionate  girl,  to  see  thee  wretched. 
Thou  knowest  not  yet  the  duties  of  a  wife. 


Z A  POLY  A.  253 


GrLYCISTE. 

Oh,  yes !     It  is  a  wife's  chief  duty,  madam  ! 
To  stand  in  awe  of  her  husband,  and  obey  him, 
And,  I  am  sure,  I  never  shall  see  Laska 
But  I  shall  tremble. 

SAROLTA. 

Not  with  fear,  I  think, 
For  you  still  mock  him.     Bring  a  seat  from  the  cottage. 

[Exit  Glycine  into  the  cottage,  Sarolta  continues  her  speech 

looking  after  her. 

Something  above  thy  rank  there  hangs  about  thee, 
And  in  thy  countenance,  thy  voice,  and  motion, 
Yea,  e'en  in  thy  simplicity,  Grlycine, 
A  fine  and  feminine  grace,  that  makes  me  feel 
Move  as  a  mother  than  a  mistress  to  thee ! 
Thou  art  a  soldier's  orphan  !  that — the  courage, 
Which,  rising  in  thine  eye,  seems  oft  to  give 
A  new  soul  to  its  gentleness,  doth  prove  thee ! 
Thou  art  sprung  too  of  no  ignoble  blood, 
Or  there's  no  faith  in  instinct ! 

[Angry  voices  and  clamor  within,  re-enter  GUycine. 

GLYCINE. 

Oh,  madam  !  there's  a  party  of  your  servants, 
And  my  lord's  steward.  Laska,  at  their  head, 
Have  come  to  search  for  old  Bathory's  son, 
Bethlen,  that  brave  young  man  !  'twas  he,  my  lady, 
That  took  our  parts,  and  beat  off  the  intruders, 
And,  in  mere  spite  and  malice,  now  they  charge  him 
With  bad  words  of  Lord  Casimir  and  the  king. 
Pray  don't  believe  them,  madam !     This  way  !     This  way ! 
Lady  Sarolta's  here.  [calling  7/rifhmit, 

SAROLTA. 
Be  calm,  Glycine. 
Enter  LASKA  and  Servants  with  OLD  BATHORY. 

LASKA.  (to  Bathory.) 
We  have  no  concern  with  you  !     What  needs  your  presence  ? 

OLD  BATHORY. 

What !     Do  you  think  I'll  suffer  my  brave  bo'y 
To  be  slandered  by  a  set  of  coward-ruffians, 
And  leave  it  to  their  malice, — yes,  mere  malice  1 
To  tell  its  own  tale  ? 

[Laska  and  servants  bow  to  Lady  Sarolta* 


254  COLERIDGE 'S  POEMS. 

SAROLTA. 

Laska  !     What  may  this  mean  ? 
LASKA.  (pompously,  as  commencing  a  set  speech.) 
Madam  !  and  may  it  please  your  ladyship  ! 
This  old  man's  son,  by  name  Bethlen  Bathory, 
Stands  charged,  on  weighty  evidence,  that  he, 
On  yester-eve,  being  his  lordship's  birth-day, 
Did  traitorously  defame  Lord  Casimir  : 
The  lord  high  steward  of  the  realm,  moreover— 

SAROLTA. 
Be  brief  I     We  know  his  titles  ! 

LASKA. 

And  moreover 

Raved  like  a  traitor  at  our  liege  King  Emerick. 
And  furthermore,  said  witnesses  make  oath, 
Led  on  the  assault  upon  his  lordship's  servants  ; 
Yea,  insolently  tore,  from  this,  your  huntsman, 
His  badge  of  livery  of  your  noble  house, 
And  trampled  it  in  scorn. 

SAROLTA.  (to  the  servants  who  offer  to  speak.) 

You  have  had  your  spokesman ! 
Where  is  the  young  man  thus  accused  ? 

OLD  BATHORY. 

I  know  not : 

But  if  no  ill  betide  him  on  the  mountains, 
He  will  not  long  be  absent ! 

SAROLTA. 

Thou  art  his  father  ? 
OLD  BATHORY. 

None  ever  with  more  reason  prized  a  son  ; 
Yet  I  hate  falsehood  more  than  I  love  him. 
But  more  than  one,  now  in  my  lady's  presence, 
Witnessed  the  affray,  besides  these  mien  of  malice: 
And  if  I  swerve  from  truth 

GLYCINE. 

Yes !  good  old  man  ! 
My  lady  !  pray  believe  him  ! 

SAROLTA. 
Hush,  Glycine ! 

Be  silent,  I  command  you.  [then  to  Bathory 

Speak  !  we  hear  you  ! 


Z A  POLY  A.  255 


OLD  BATHORY. 

My  tale  is  brief.     During  our  festive  dance, 
Your  servants,  the  accusers  of  my  son, 
Offered  gross  insults,  in  unmanly  sort, 
To  our  village  maidens.     He  (could  he  do  less?) 
Rose  in  defence  of  outraged  modesty, 
And  so  persuasive  did  his  cudgel  prove 
(Your  hectoring  sparks  so  over-brave  to  women 
Are  always  cowards),  that  they  soon  took  flight, 
And  now  in  mere  revenge,  like  baffled  boasters, 
Have  framed  this  tale,  out  of  some  hasty  words 
Which  their  own  threats  provoked. 

SABOLTA. 

Old  man  !  you  talk 

Too  bluntly  !     Did  your  son  owe  no  respect 
To  the  livery  of  our  house  ? 

OLD  BATHORY. 

Even  such  respect 

As  the  sheep's  skin  should  gain  for  the  hot  wolf 
That  hath  began  to  worry  the  poor  lambs  ! 

LASKA. 
Old  insolent  ruffian  I 

GLYCINE. 

Pardon  !  pardon,  madam  ! 
I  saw  the  whole  affray.     The  good  old  man 
Means  no  offence,  sweet  lady  ! — You,  yourself, 
Laska !  know  well,  that  these  men  were  the  ruffians ! 
Shame  on  you  ! 

SAROLTA.  (speaks  with  affected  anger.) 
What  \  Glycine  ?   Go,  retire  ! 

[Exit  Glycine  mournfully, 

Be  it  then  that  these  men  faulted.     Yet  yourself, 
Or  better  still  belike  the  maidens'  parents, 
Might  have  complained  to  us.     Was  ever  access 
Denied  you  ?    Or  free  audience  ?    Or  are  we 
Weak  and  unfit  to  punish  our  own  servants  ? 

OLD  BATHORY. 

So  then  !   So  then  !    Heaven  grant  an  old  man  patience  1 
And  must  the  gardener  leave  his  seedling  plants, 
Leave  his  young  roses  to  the  rooting  swine, 
While  he  goes  ask  their  master,  if  perchance 
His  leisure  serve  to  scourge  them  from  their  ravage  ? 

* 


256  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

LASKA. 

Ho  !    Take  the  rude  clown  from  your  lady's  presence  i 
I  will  report  her  further  will ! 

SAROLTA. 
Wait,  then, 

Till  thou  hast  learnt  it !     Fervent  good  old  man  ! 
Forgive  me  that,  to  try  thee,  I  put  on 
A  face  of  sternness,  alien  to  my  meaning  ! 

[then  speaks  to  the  servants. 

Hence  !  leave  my  presence  !  and  you,  Laska  !  mark  me  1 
Those  rioters  are  no  longer  of  my  household  ! 
If  we  but  shake  a  dew-drop  from  a  rose 
In  vain  would  we  replace  it,  and  as  vainly 
Restore  the  tear  of  wounded  modesty 
To  a  maiden's  eye  familiarized  to  licence. — 
But  these  men,  Laska— 

LASKA.  (aside.) 
Yes,  now  'tis  coming. 

SAROLTA. 

Brutal  aggressors  first,  then  baffled  dastards, 
That  they  have  sought  to  piece  out  their  revenge 
"With  a  tale  of  words  lured  from  the  lips  of  anger 
Stamps  them  most  dangerous  ;  and  till  I  want 
Fit  means  for  wicked  ends,  we  shall  not  need 
Their  services.     Discharge  them  !     You,  Bathory ! 
Are  henceforth  of  my  household  !     I  shall  place  you 
Near  my  own  person.     When  your  son  returns 
Present  him  to  us ! 

OLD  BATHORY. 

Ha  !  what  strangers  *  here  ! 
What  business  have  they  in  an  old  man's  eye  ? 
Your  goodness,  lady — and  it  came  so  sudden — • 
[  cannot — must  not — let  you  be  deceived. 

I  have  yet  another  tale,  but  \then  to  Sarolta  aside,  not  for 

all  ears ! 

SAROLTA. 

I  oft  have  passed  your  cottage,  and  still  praised 
Its  beauty,  and  that  trim  orchard-plot,  whose  blossoms 
The  gusts  of  April  showered  aslant  its  thatch. 
Come,  you  shall  show  it  me !     And,  while  you  bid  it 
Farewell,  be  not  ashamed  that  I  should  witness 

*  Refers  to  the  tear,  which  he  feels  starting  in  his  eye.    The  following  lin<  was  bof- 
rowed  unconsciously  from  Mr.  Wordsworth's  Excursion. 


ZAPOL  YA. 


257 


The  oil  of  gladness  glittering  on  the  water 
Of  an  ebbing  grief. 

[Bathory  bowing,  shows  her  into  his  cottage. 
LASKA.  (alone.) 
Vexation  !  baffled  !  schooled  I 

Ho  !     Laska  !  wake  !  why  ?  what  can  all  this  mean  ? 
She  sent  away  that  cockatrice  in  anger  ! 
Oh,  the  false  witch  !     It  is  too  plain,  she  loves  him. 
And  now,  the  old  man  near  my  lady's  person, 
She'll  see  this  Bethlen  hourly  ! 

[Laska  flings  himself  into  the  seat.     Glycine  peeps  in 
timidly. 

GLYCINE. 

Laska !   Laska ! 
Is  my  lady  gone  ? 

LASKA.  (surlily.} 
Gone. 

GLYCINE. 

Have  you  yet  seen  him  ? 
Is  he  returned  ? 

[Laska  starts  up  from  his  seat 
Has  the  seat  stung  you,  Laska  ? 

LASKA. 

No,  serpent !  no  ;  'tis  you  tha-t  sting  me  ;  you  I 
What  ?  you  would  cling  to  him  again  ! 

GLYCINE. 

Whom? 
LASKA. 

Bethlen !     Bethlen ! 

Yes  ;  gaze  as  if  your  very  eyes  embraced  him  ! 
Ha  !  you  forget  the  scene  of  yesterday  ! 
Mute  ere  he  came,  but  then — Out  on  your  screams, 
4nd  your  pretended  fears  ! 

GLYCINE. 

Tour  fears,  at  least, 

Were  real,  Laska  !  or  your  trembling  limbs 
And  white  cheeks  played  the  hypocrites  most  vilely ! 


I  fear!  whom?  What? 


Were  I  in  Laska's  place. 


LASKA. 

GLYCINE. 
I  know  what  J  should  fear 

17 


258  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

LASKA. 
What? 
GLYCINE. 

My  own  conscience, 
For  having  fed  my  jealousy  and  envy 
With  a  plot,  made  out  of  other  men's  revenges, 
Against  a  brave  and  innocent  young  man's  life  I 
Yet,  yet,  pray  tell  me  ! 

LASKA.  (malignantly) 
You  will  know  too  soon. 

GLYCINE. 

Would  I  could  find  my  lady  !  though  she  chid  me — 
Yet  this  suspense—  [going, 

LASKA. 

Stop  !  stop !  one  question  only — 
I  am  quite  «alm — 

GLYCINE. 

Ay,  as  the  old  song  says, 
Calm  as  a  tiger,  valiant  as  a  dove. 
Nay,  now,  J  have  marred  the  verse :  well !  this  one  question— 

LASKA. 

Are  you  not  bound  to  me  by  your  own  promise  ? 
And  is  it  not  as  plain — 

GLYCINE. 

Halt !  that's  two  questions. 

LASKA. 

Pshaw !     Is  it  not  as  plain  as  impudence, 
That  you're  in  love  with  this  young  swaggering  beggar, 
Bethlen  Bathory  ?     When  he  was  accused, 
Why  pressed  you  forward  ?     Why  did  you  defend  him  ? 

GLYCINE. 

Question  meet  question  :  that's  a  woman's  privilege. 
Why,  Laska,  did  you  urge  Lord  Casimir 
To  make  my  lady  force  that  promise  from  me  ? 

LASKA. 
So  then,  you  say,  Lady  Sarolta  forced  you  ? 

GLYCINE. 

Could  I  look  up  to  her  dear  countenance, 
And  say  h<;r  nay  ?     As  far  back  as  I  wot  of 
All  her  commands  were  gracious,  sweet  requests. 


ZAPOLYA.  259 


How  could  it  be  then,  but  that  her  requests 
Must  needs  have  sounded  to  me  as  commands  ? 
And  as  for  love,  had  I  a  score  of  loves, 
I'd  keep  them  all  for  my  dear,  kind,  good  mistress.. 

LASKA. 

Not  one  for  Bethlen  ? 

GLYCINE. 

Oh  !  that's  a  different  thing. 

To  be  sure,  he's  brave  and  handsome,  and  so  pious 
To  his  good  old  father.     But  for  loving  him — 
Nay,  there,  indeed,  you  are  mistaken,  Laskal 
Poor  youth  !  I  rather  think  I  grieve  for  him  ; 
For  I  sigh  so  deeply  when  I  think  of  him  ! 
And  if  I  see  him,  the  tears  come  in  my  eyes, 
And  my  heart  beats  ;  and  all  because  I  dreamt 
That  the  war-wolf  *  had  gored  him  as  he  hunted 
In  the  haunted  forest ! 

LASKA. 

You  dare  own  all  this  ? 

Your  lady  will  not  warrant  promise-breach. 
Mine,  pampered  Miss !  you  shall  be  ;  and  I'll  make  you 
Grieve  for  him  with  a  vengeance.     Odd's,  my  fingers 
Tingle  already !  [makes  threatening  signs. 

GLYCINE.  (aside.) 
Ha  !  Bethlen  coming  this  way  ! 
[Glycine  then  cries  out  as  if  afraid  of  being  beaten. 
Oh,  save  me  !  save  me !     Pray  don't  kill  me,  Laska  ! 
Enter  BETHLEJ?  in  an  Hunting  Dress- 

BETHLEN. 
What,  beat  a  woman  ! 

LASKA.  (to  Glycine.) 
O  you  cockatrice ! 
BETHLEN. 
Unmanly  dastard,  hold ! 

LASKA.  (pompously.) 

Do  you  chance  to  know 
Who— I— am,  Sir?— ('Sdeath  !  how  black  he  looks  !) 

BETHLEN. 

I  have  started  many  strange  beasts  in  my  time, 
But  none  less  like  a  man,  than  this  before  me 
That  lifts  his  hand  against  a  timid  female. 

*  For  the  beat  account  of  the  War-wolf  or  Lycanthropug,  see  Drayton's  Mooncalf^ 
Chalmers'  English  Poets,  Vol.  IV.,  p.  l^e. 


260  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

LASKA. 
Bold  youth  !  she's  mine. 

GLYCINE. 

No,  not  my  master  yet, 
But  only  is  to  be  ;  and  all,  because 
Two  years  ago  my  lady  asked  me,  and 
I  promised  her,  not  him  ;  and  if  she'll  let  me, 
I'll  hate  you,  my  lord's  steward. 

BETHLEN. 

Hush,  Glycine! 

GLYCINE. 

Yes,  I  do,  Bethlen  ;  for  he  just  now  brought 
False  witnesses  to  swear  away  your  life  : 
Your  life,  and  old  Bathory's  too. 

BETHLEN. 

Bathory's ! 

Where  is  my  father?     Answer,  or Ha  !  gone  ! 

[Laska  during  thin  time  slinks  off  the  Stage,  using  threat- 
ening gestures  to  Glycine. 

GLYCINE. 

Oh,  heed  not  him  I     I  saw  you  pressing  onward, 
And  did  but  feign  alarm.     Dear  gallant  youth, 
It  is  your  life  they  seek  ! 

BETHLEN. 
My  life? 

GrLYCItfE. 

Alas, 
Lady  Sarolta  even — 

BETHLEN. 
She  does  not  know  me  ! 

GLYCINE. 

Oh  that  she  did  !  she  could  not  then  have  spoken 
With  such  stern  countenance.     But  though  she  spurn  me, 
I  will  kneel,  Bethlen — 

BETHLEN. 

Not  for  me,  Glycine  ! 
What  have  I  done  ?  or  whom  have  1  offended  ? 

GLYCINE. 
Rash  words,  'tis  said,  and  treasonous  of  the  king. 

[Bethlen  mutters  to  himself  indignantly. 


Z A  POLY  A.  261 


GLTCINE.  (aside.) 

So  looks  the  statue,  in  our  hall,  o'the  god, 
The  shaft  just  flown  that  killed  the  serpent .' 

BETHLEN.  (muttering  aside.} 

King! 

GLYCINE. 

Ah,  often  have  I  wished  you  were  a  king, 

You  would  protect  the  helpless  everywhere, 

As  you  did  us.     And  I,  too,  should  not  then 

Grieve  for  you,  Bethlen,  as  I  do ;  nor  have 

The  tears  come  in  my  eyes  ;  nor  dream  bad  dreams 

That  you  were  killed  in  the  forest  ;  and  then  Laska 

Would  have  no  right  to  rail  at  me,  nor  say 

(Yes,  the  base  man,  he  says/  that  I — I  love  you. 

BETHLEN. 

Pretty  Glycine  !  wert  thou  not  betrothed — 
But  in  good  truth  I  know  not  what  1  speak. 
This  luckless  morning  I  have  been  so  haunted 
With  my  own  fancies,  starting  up  like  omens, 
That  I  feel  like  one,  who  waking  from  a  dream 
Both  asks  and  answers  wildly. — But  Bathory  ? 

GLYCINE. 
Hist !  'tis  my  lady's  step  !     She  must  not  see  you  ! 

(Bethlen  retires 
Enter  from  the  Cottage  SAROLTA  and  BATHORY. 

SA.ROLTA. 

Go,  seek  your  son  !     I  need  not  add  be  speedy. 
You  here,  Glycine  !  [Exit  Bathory. 

GLYCINE. 

Pardon,  pardon  Madam  ! 

If  you  but  saw  the  old  man's  son,  you  would  not, 
You  could  not  have  him  harmed. 

SAROLTA. 

Be  calm,  Glycine ! 

GLYCINE. 

No,  I  shall  break  my  heart.  [Sobbing 

SAROLTA.  (taking  her  hand.) 

Ha  !  is  it  so  ? 

O  strange  and  hidden  power  of  sympathy, 
That  of  like  fates,  though  all  unknown  to  each, 


262  COLERIDGE 'S  POEMS. 

Dost  make  blind  instincts,  orphan's  heart  to  orphan's 
Drawing  by  dim  disquiet ! 

GLYCINE. 
Old  Bathory— 

SAROLTA. 

Seeks  his  brave  son.     Come,  wipe  away  thy  tears. 
Yes,  in  good  truth,  Glycine,  this  same  Bethlen 
Seems  a  most  noble  and  deserving  youth. 

GLYCINE. 
My  lady  does  not  mock  me  ? 

SAROLTA. 

Where  is  Laska  ? 
Has  he  not  told  thee  ? 

GLYCINE, 

Nothing.     In  his  fear- 
Anger,  1  mean — stole  off — I  am  so  fluttered — 
Left  me  abruptly  — 

SAROLTA. 

His  shame  excuses  him  ! 

He  is  somewhat  hardly  tasked  ;  and  in  discharging 
His  own  tools,  cons  a  lesson  for  himself. 
Bathory  and  the  youth  henceforward  live 
Safe  in  my  lord's  protection. 

GLYCINE. 

The  saints  bless  you  ! 

Shame  on  my  graceless  heart !     How  dared  I  fear 
Lady  Sarolta  could  be  cruel  ? 

SAROLTA. 
Come, 
Be  yourself,  girl ! 

GLYCINE. 

O,  'tis  so  full  here  !  [at  her  heart 

And  now  it  cannot  harm  him  if  I  tell  you, 
That  the  old  man's  son — 

SAROLTA. 

Is  not  that  old  man's  son ! 
A  destiny,  not  unlike  thine  own,  is  his, 
For  all  I  know  of  thee  is,  that  thou  art 
A  soldier's  orphan  :  left  when  rage  intestine 
Shook  and  engulfed  the  pillars  of  lllyria. 


ZAPOL  YA.  203 


This  other  fragment,  thrown  back  by  that  same  earthquake, 
Tliis,  so  mysteriously  inscribed  by  nature, 
Perchance  may  piece  out  and  interpret  thine. 
Command  thyself  !     Be  secret !     His  true  father — 
Hear'st  thou  ? 

GLYCINE.  (eagerly.) 
O  tell— 
BETHLEN.  (who  had  overheard  the  last  few  words,  now  rushes  out.) 

Yes,  tell  me,  Shape  from  heaven ! 
Who  is  my  father  ? 

SAROLTA.  (gazing  with  surprise.) 
Thine  ?     Thy  father  ?    Rise  ! 

GLYCINE. 
Alas  !  He  hath  alarmed  you,  my  dear  lady  ! 

SAROLTA. 
His  countenance,  not  his  act ! 

GLYCINE. 

Rise,  Bethlen  I  rise ! 

BETHLEN. 

No  ;  kneel  thou  too  !  and  with  thy  orphan's  tongue 
Plead  for  me  !     I  am  rooted  to  the  earth 
And  have  no  power  to  rise  !     Give  me  a  father  ! 
There  is  a  prayer  in  those  uplifted  eyes 
That  seeks  high  Heaven  !     But  I  will  overtake  it, 
And  bring  it  back,  and  make  it  plead  for  me 
In  thine  own  heart !     Speak  !     Speak  !     Restore  to  me 
A  name  in  the  world  ! 

SAROLTA. 

By  that  blest  Heaven  I  gazed  at, 
I  know  not  who  thou  art.     And  if  I  knew, 
Dared  I— But  rise  ! 

BETHLEN. 

Blest  spirits  of  my  parents, 
¥>  hover  o'er  me  now  !  Ye  shine  upon  me  ! 
And  like  a  flower  that  coils  forth  from  a  ruin, 
I  feel  and  seek  the  light,  I  cannot  see ! 

SAROLTA. 

Thou  see'st  von  dim  spot  on  the  mountain's  ridge, 
But  what  it  is  thou  know'st  not.     Even  such 
Is  all  I  know  of  thee — haply,  brave  youth, 
Is  all  Fate  makes  it  safe  for  thee  to  know  ! 


264  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

BETHLEN. 

Safe  ?     Safe  ?    0  let  me  then  inherit  danger, 
And  it  shall  be  my  birth-right ! 

SAROLTA.  (aside.) 

That  look  again  !— 

The  wood  which  first  incloses,  and  then  skirts 
The  highest  track  that  leads  across  the  mountains — 
Thou  know'st  it,  Bethlen  ? 

BETHLEN. 

Lady,  'twas  my  wont 
To  roam  there  in  my  childhood  oft  alone 
And  mutter  to  myself  the  name  of  father. 
For  still  Bathory  (why,  till  now  I  guessed  not) 
Would  never  hear  it  from  my  lips,  but  sighing 
Gazed  upward.     Yet  of  late  an  idle  terror 

GLYCINE. 

Madam,  that  wood  is  haunted  by  the  war- wolves, 
Vampires,  and  monstrous 

SAROLTA.  (with  a  smile.) 

Moon-calves,  credulous  girl  I 
Haply  some  o'ergrown  savage  of  the  forest 
Hath  his  lair  there,  and  fear  hath  framed  the  rest. 

[Then  speaking  again  to  Bethlen. 
After  that  last  great  battle  (O  young  man  ! 
Thou  wakest  anew  my  life's  sole  anguish),  that 
Which  fixed  Lord  Emerick  on  his  throne,  Bathory, 
Led  by  a  cry,  far  inward  from  the  track, 
In  the  hollow  of  an  oak,  as  in  a  nest, 
Did  find  thee,  Bethlen,  then  a  helpless  babe. 
The  robe,  that  wrapt  thee,  was  a  widow's  mantle. 

BETHLEN. 
An  infant's  weakness  doth  relax  any  frame. 

0  say — I  fear  to  ask 

SAROLTA. 

And  I  to  tell  thee. 
BETHLEN. 
Strike  !     O  strike  quickly  1     See,  I  do  not  shrink. 

[striking  his  breast. 

1  am  stone,  cold  stone. 

SAROLTA. 

Hid  in  a  brake  hard  by, 
Scarce  by  both  palms  supported  from  the  earth, 


ZAPOLYA.  265 


A  wounded  lady  lay,  whose  life  fast  waning 

Seemed  to  survive  itself  in  her  fixed  eyes, 

That  strained  towards  the  babe.     At  length  one  arm 

Painfully  from  her  own  weight  disengaging, 

She  pointed  first  to  heaven,  then  from  her  bosom 

Drew  forth  a  golden  casket.     Thus  entreated, 

Thy  foster-father  took  thee  in  his  arms, 

Arid  kneeling  spake  :  If  aught  of  this  world's  comfort 

Can  reach  thy  heart,  receive  a  poor  man's  troth, 

That  at  my  life's  risk  I  will  save  thy  child  ! 

Her  countenance  worked,  as  one  that  seemed  preparing 

A  loud  voice,  but  it  died  upon  her  lips 

In  a  faint  whisper,  '  Fly !  Save  him  !  Hide — hide  all  1 ' 

BETHLEN. 

And  did  he  leave  her  ?     What,  had  I  a  mother  ? 
And  left  her  bleeding,  dying  ?     Bought  I  vile  life 
With  the  desertion  of  31  dying  mother  ? 
Oh  agony ! 

GLYCINE. 

Alas  !  thou  art  bewildered, 
And  dost  forget  thou  wert  a  helpless  infant ! 

BETHLEN. 

What  else  can  I  remember,  but  a  mother 
Mangled  and  left  to  perish  ? 

SAROLTA. 

Hush,  Glycinel 

It  is  the  ground-swell  of  a  teeming  instinct : 
Let  it  but  lift  itself  to  air  and  sunshine, 
And  it  will  find  a  mirror  in  the  waters, 
It  now  makes  boil  above  it.     Check  him  not ! 

BETHLEN. 

D  that  I  were  diffused  among  the  waters 
That  pierce  into  the  secret  depths  of  earth, 
And  find  their  way  in  darkness  !     Would  that  I 
Could  spread  myself  upon  the  homeless  winds  f 
And  I  would  seek  her  !  for  she  is  not  dead  ! 
She  cannot  die  !     O  pardon,  gracious  lady  I 
You  were  about  to  say,  that  he  returned — 

SAROLTA. 

Deep  Love,  the  godlike  in  us,  still  believes 
Its  objects  as  immortal  as  itself ! 


266  COLERIDGE  'S  POEMS. 

BETHLEN. 
And  found  her  still — 

SABOLTA. 

Alas  !  he  did  return, 

Re  left  no  spot  unsearched  in  all  the  forest, 
But  she  (I  trust  me  by  some  friendly  hand) 
Had  been  borne  off. 

BETHLEN. 
O  whither  ? 

GLYCINE. 

Dearest  Bethlen ! 

I  would  that  you  could  weep  like  ine !     O  do  not 
Gaze  so  upon  the  air  ! 

SAROLTA.  (continuing  the  story.) 

While  he  was  absent 

A  friendly  troop,  'tis  certain,  scoured  the  wood, 
Hotly  pursued  indeed  by  Emerick. 

BETHLEN. 

Emerick. 
Oh  Hell ! 

GLYCINE.  (to  silence  him.) 
Bethlen ! 

BETHLEN. 

Hist !  I'll  curse  him  in  a  whisper! 
This  gracious  lady  must  hear  blessings  only. 
She  hath  not  yet  the  glory  round  her  head. 
Nor  those  strong  eagle  wings,  which  made  swift  way 
To  that  appointed  place,  which  I  must  seek  : 
Or  else  she  were  my  mother  ! 

SAROLTA. 

Noble  youth  ! 

From  me  fear  nothing  !     Long  time  have  I  owed 
Offerings  of  expiation  for  misdeeds 
Long  passed  that  weigh  me  down,  though  innocent  I 
Thy  foster-father  hid  the  secret  from  thee, 
For  he  perceived  thy  thoughts,  as  they  expanded, 
Proud,  restless,  and  ill-sorting  with  thy  state  ! 
Vain  was  his  care  !     Thou'st  made  thyself  suspected 
E'eri  where  Suspicion  reigns,  and  asks  no  proof 
But  its  own  fears  !     Great  Nature  hath  endowed  thee 
With  her  best  gifts !     From  me  thou  shalt  receive 


ZAPOLYA.  267 


All  honorable  aidance !     But  haste  hence ! 

Tra.vel  will  ripen  thee,  and  enterprise 

Beseems  thy  years  !     Be  thou  henceforth  my  soldier ! 

And  whatsoe'er  betide  thee,  still  believe 

That  in  each  noble  deed,  achieved  or  suffered, 

Thou  sol  vest  best  the  riddle  of  thy  birth  ! 

And  may  the  light  that  streams  from  thine  own  honor 

Guide  thee  to  that  thou  seekest ! 

GLYCINE. 

Must  he  leave  us  ? 

BETHLEN. 

And  for  such  goodness  can  I  return  nothing, 
But  some  hot  tears  that  sting  mine  eyes  ?    Some  sighs 
That  if  not  breathed  would  swell  my  heart  to  stifling  ? 
May  Heaven  and  thine  own  virtues,  high-born  lady, 
Be  as  a  shield  of  fire,  far,  far  aloof. 
To  scare  all  evil  from  thee  !     Yet  if,  fate 
Hath  destined  thee  one  doubtful  hour  of  danger, 
From  the  uttermost  region  of  the  earth,  methinks, 
Swift  as  a  spirit  invoked,  I  should  be  with  thee  ! 
And  then,  perchance,  I  might  have  power  to  unbosom 
These  thanks  that  struggle  here.     Eyes  fair  as  thine 
Have  gazed  on  me  with  tears  of  love  and  anguish, 
Which  these  eyes  saw  not,  or  beheld  unconscious  ; 
And  tones  of  anxious  fondness,  passionate  prayers, 
Have  been  talked  to  me  !     But  this  tongue  ne'er  soothed 
A  mother's  ear,  lisping  a  mother's  name  ? 
O,  at  how  dear  a  price  have  I  been  loved, 
And  no  love  could  return  !     One  boon  then,  lady  ! 
Where'er  thou  bid'st,  I  go  thy  faithful  soldier, 
But  first  must  trace  the  spot  where  she  lay  bleeding 
Who  gave  me  life.     No  more  shall  beast  of  ravine 
Affront  with  baser  spoil  that  sacred  forest ! 
Or  if  avengers  more  than  human  haunt  there, 
Take  they  what  shape  they  list,  savage  or  heavenly, 
They  shall  make  answer  to  me,  though  my  heart's  blood 
Should  be  the  spell  to  bind  them.    Blood  calls  for  blood  ! 

[Exit  Bethlen. 

SAROLTA. 

Ah  !  it  was  this  I  feared.     To  ward  off  this 
Did  I  withhold  from  him  that  old  Bathory 
Returning  hid  beneath  the  self-same  oak, 
Where  the  babe  lay,  the  mantle,  and  some  jewel 
Bound  on  his  infant  tvrm. 


268  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS, 

GLYCINE. 

Oh,  let  me  fly 

And  stop  him  !     Mangled  limbs  do  there  lie  scattered 
Till  the  lured  eagle  bears  them  to  her  nest. 
And  voices  have  been  heard  !     And  there  the  pJ.ant  grows 
That  being  eaten  gives  the  inhuman  wizard 
Power  to  put  on  the  fell  Hyaena's  shape. 

SAROLTA. 

What  idle  tongue  hath  bewitched  thee,  Glycine  ? 
I  hoped  that  them  hadst  learnt  a  nobler  faith. 

GLYCINE. 

O  chide  me  not,  dear  lady  ;  question  Laska, 
Or  the  old  man. 

SAROLTA. 

Forgive  ine,  I  spake  harshly. 
It  is  indeed  a  mighty  sorcery 

That  doth  enthral  thy  young  heart,  my  poor  girl, 
And  what  hath  Laska  told  thee  ? 

GLYCINE. 

Three  days  past 

A  courier  from  the  king  did  cross  that  wood  ; 
A  wilful  man,  that  armed  himself  on  purpose  : 
And  never  hath  been  heard  of  from  that  time ! 

[Sound  of  horns  without 
SAROLTA. 
Hark  !  dost  thou  hear  it  ? 

GLYCINE. 

'Tis  the  sound  of  horns  ! 
Our  huntsmen  are  not  out ! 

SAROLTA. 

Lord  Casimir 
Would  not  come  thus  I  [Horns  again 

GLYCINE. 
Still  louder  I 

SAROLTA. 

Haste  we  henoe\ 
For  I  believe  in  part  thy  tale  of  terror ! 


Z A  POLY  A.  260 


But,  trust  aie,  'tis  the  inner  man  transformed  i 

Beasts  in  the  shape  of  men  are  worse  than  war- wolves. 

[Sarolta  and  9 ly cine  exeunt.  Trumpets ,  &c.<  louder.  Enter 
EMFRTCK,  LORD  RUDOLPH,  LASKA,  and  Huntsmen  and 
Attendants. 

RUDOLPH. 
A  gallant  chace,  sire. 

EMERICK. 

Ay,  but  this  new  quarry 

That  we  last  started  seems  worth  all  the  rest.          [Then  to  Lasfra. 
And  you— excuse  me — what's  your  name  ? 

LASKA. 

Whatever 
Your  Majesty  may  please. 

EMERICK. 

Nay,  that's  too  late,  man. 
Say,  what  thy  mother  and  thy  godfather 
Were  pleased  to  call  thee. 

LASKA. 

Laska,  my  liege  sovereign. 

EMERICK. 

Well,  my  liege  subject  Laska  !     And  you  are 
Lord  Casiinir's  steward  ? 

LASKA. 

And  your  Majesty's  creature. 

EMERICK. 

Two  gentle  dames  made  off  at  our  approach. 
Which  Wtis  your  lady  ? 

LASKA. 

My  liege  lord,  the  taller. 

The  other,  nlease  your  Grace,  is  her  poor  handmaid, 
Long  since  betrothed  to  me.     But  the  maid's  froward — 
Yet  would  your  Grace  but  speak — 

EMERICK. 

Hum,  master  steward  ! 
I  am  honored  with  this  sudden  confidence. 
Lead  on.  [to  Laska,  then  to  Rudoipn. 

Lord  Rudolph,  you'll  announce  our  coming. 
Greet  fair  Sarolta  from  me,  and  entreat  her 
To  be  our  gentle  hostess.     Mark,  you  add 


/70  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

How  much  we  grieve,  that  business  of  the  state 
Hath  forced  us  to  delay  her  lord's  return. 

LORD  RUDOLPH,  (aside.} 
Lewd,  ingrate  tyrant !  Yes,  I  will  announce  thee. 

EMERICK. 
Now  onward  all.  [Exeunt  attendants, 

EMERICK  solus. 
A  fair  one  by  my  faith  ! 
If  her  face  rival  but  her  gait  and  stature, 
My  good  friend  Casimir  had  his  reasons  too. 
*  Her  tender  health,  her  vow  of  strict  retirement, 
Made  early  in  the  convent — His  word  pledged — ' 
All  fictions,  all !  fictions  of  jealousy. 
Well !  if  the  mountain  move  not  to  the  prophet, 
The  prophet  must  to  the  mountain  !     In  this  Laska 
There's  somewhat  of  the  knave  mixed  up  with  dolt. 
Through  the  transparence  of  the  fool,  methought, 
I  saw  (as  I  could  lay  my  finger  on  it) 
The  crocodile's  eye,  that  peered  up  from  the  bottom. 
This  knave  may  do  us  service.     Hot  ambition 
Won  me  the  husband.     Now  let  vanity 
And  the  resentment  for  a  forced  seclusion 
Decoy  the  wife  !     Let  him  be  deemed  the  aggressor 
Whose  cunning  and  distrust  began  the  game  I  [Exit, 


•      ACT  II.— SCENE  I. 

A  savage  wood.  At  one  side  a  cavern,  overhung  with  ivy.  ZAPO- 
LYA  and  RAAB  KIUPRILI  discovered :  both,  but  especially  the 
latter,  in  rude  and  savage  garments. 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 
Heard  you  then  aught  while  I  was  slumbering  ? 

ZAPOLYA. 

Nothing. 

Only  your  face  became  convulsed.     We  miserable  ! 
Is  Heaven's  last  mercy  fled  ?    Is  sleep  grown  treacherous  ? 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

O  for  a  sleep,  for  sleep  itself  to  rest  in  ! 
A  dreamt  I  had  met  with  food  beneath  a  tree 
*knd  I  was  seeking  you,  when  all  at  once 
My  feet  became  entangled  in  a  net ; 


Z A  POLY  A.  271 


Still  more  entangled  as  in  rage  I  tore  it, 

At  length  I  freed  myself,  had  sight  of  you, 

But  as  I  hastened  eagerly,  again 

I  found  my  frame  encumbered  :  a  huge  serpent 

Twined  round  my  chest,  but  tightest  round  my  throat. 

ZAPOLYA. 
Alas  !  'twas  lack  of  food  :  for  hunger  chokes  ! 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

And  now  I  saw  you  by  a  shrivelled  child 
Strangely  pursued.     You  did  not  fly,  yet  neither 
Touched  you  the  ground  inethought,  but  close  above  it 
Did  seem  to  shoot  yourself  along  the  air, 
And  as  you  passed  me  turned  your  face  and  shrieked. 

ZAPOLYA. 

I  did  in  truth  send  forth  a  feeble  shriek, 
Scarce  knowing  why.     Perhaps  the  mocked  sense  craved 
To  hear  the  scream,  which  you  but  seemed  to  utter. 
For  your  whole  face  looked  like  a  mask  of  torture  ! 
Yet  a  child's  image  doth  indeed  pursue  me 
Shrivelled  with  toil  and  penury  ! 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

Nay  !  what  ails  you  ? 
ZAPOLYA. 

A  wondrous  faintness  there  comes  stealing  o'er  me. 
Is  it  Death's  lengthening  shadow,  who  comes  onwardr 
Life's  setting  sun  behind  him  ? 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

Cheerly!  The  dusk 

Will  quickly  shroud  us.     Ere  the  moon  be  up, 
Trust  me,  I'll  bring  thee  food  ! 

ZAPOLYA. 

Hunger's  tooth  has 

Gnawn  itself  blunt.     O,  I  could  queen  it  well 
O'er  my  own  sorrows  as  my  rightful  subjects. 
But  wherefore,  O  revered  Kiuprili  !  wherefore 
Did  my  importunate  prayers,  my  hopes  and  fancies, 
Force  thee  from  thy  secure  though  sad  retreat  ? 
Would  that  my  tongue  had  then  cloven  to  my  mouth ! 
But  Heaven  is  just !     With  tears  I  conquered  thee, 
And  not  a  tear  is  left  me  to  repent  with  ! 
Hadst  thou  not  done  already — hadst  thou  not 
Suffered — oh,  more  than  e'er  man  feigned  of  friendship  f 


272  COLE  RID  GE  'S  POEMS. 


RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

Yet  be  thou  comforted  !     What !  hadst  thou  faith 

When  I  turned  back  incredulous  ?     'Twas  thy  light 

That  kindled  mine.     And  shall  it  now  go  out, 

And  leave  thy  soul  in  darkness  ?     Yet  look  up, 

Arid  think  thou  see'st  thy  sainted  lord  commissioned 

And  on  his  way  to  aid  us  ?     Whence  those  late  dreams, 

Which  after  such  long  interval  of  hopeless 

And  silent  resignation  all  at  once 

Night  after,  night  commanded  thy  return 

Hither  ?  and  still  presented  in  clear  vision 

This  wood  as  in  a  scene  ?  this  very  cavern  ? 

Thou  darest  not  doubt  that  Heaven's  especial  hand 

Worked  in  those  signs.     The  hour  of  thy  deliverance 

Is  on  the  stroke  : — for  Misery  cannot  add 

Grief  to  thy  griefs,  or  Patience  to  thy  sufferance ! 

ZAPOLYA. 

Cannot !  Oh,  what  if  thou  were  taken  from  me  ? 
Nay,  thou  said'st  well :  for  that  and  death  were  one. 
Life's  grief  is  at  its  height  indeed  ;  the  hard 
Necessity  of  this  inhuman  state 
Has  made  our  deeds  inhuman  as  our  vestments. 
Housed  in  this  wild  wood,  with  wild  usages, 
Danger  our  guest,  and  famine  at  our  portal — 
Wolf-like  to  prowl  in  the  shepherd's  fold  by  night ! 
At  once  for  food  and  safety  to  affrighten 
The  traveller  from  his  road —    [Glycine  is  heard  singing  without 


A  distant  chaunt  ? 


RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

Hark  !  heard  you  not 


SONG,  BY  GLYCINE. 
A  sunny  shaft  did  I  behold, 

From  sky  to  earth  it  slanted  : 
And  poised  therein  a  bird  so  bold — 

Sweet  bird,  thou  wert  enchanted  ! 
He  sunk,  he  rose,  he  twinkled,  he  trolled 

Within  that  shaft  of  sunny  mist ; 
His  eyes  of  fire,  his  beak  of  gold, 

All  else  of  amethyst ! 

And  thus  he  sang  :  '  Adieu  !  adieu  ! 
Love's  dreams  prove  seldom  true. 


ZAPOLYA.  273 


Sweet  month  of  May, 
We  must  away  j 
Far,  far  away  ! 
To  day  !  to  day ! ' 

ZAPOLYA. 

Sure  'tis  some  blest  spirit ! 
For  since  thou  slew'st  the  usurper's  emissary 
That  plunged  upon  us,  a  more  than  mortal  fear 
Is  as  a  wall,  that  wards  off  the  beleaguerer 
And  starves  the  poor  besieged.  [Song  again. 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 
It  is  a  maiden's  voice  !  quick  to  the  cave  ! 

ZAPOLYA. 

Hark  !  her  voice  falters  !  [Exit  Zapolya. 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

She  must  not  enter 
The  cavern,  else  I  will  remain  unseen  ! 

[Kiuprili  retires  to  one  side  of  the  stage.    GLYCINE  enters 
singing. 

GLYCINE.  (fearfully.} 

A  savage  place  !  saints  shield  me  !    Bethlen  !    Bethlen  ! 
Not  here  ? — There's  no  one  here  !    I'll  sing  again.       [sings  again. 
If  I  don't  hear  my  own  voice,  I  shall  fancy 
Voices  in  all  chance  .sounds  !  [starts. 

'Twas  some  dry  branch 

Dropt  of  itself  !     Oh,  he  went  forth  so  rashly, 
Took  no  food  with  him — only  his  arms  and  boar-spear ! 
What  if  I  leave  these  cakes,  this  cruse  of  wine, 
Here  by  this  cave,  and  seek  him  with  the  rest  ? 

RAAB  KIUPRILI.  (unseen.) 
Leave  them  and  flee  ! 

GLYCINE.  (shrieks,  then  recovering.) 
Where  are  you  ? 

RAAB  KIUPRILI.  (still  unseen.} 

Leave  them ! 
GLYCINE. 

'Tis  Glycine  1 

Speak  to  me,  Bethlen  !  speak  in  your  own  voice  ! 
All  silent! — If  this  were  the  war- wolf's  den  ! 
'Twas  not  his  voice  ! — 

[GUyoine  leaves  the  provisions  and  exit  fearfully.    Kiuprili 
18 


274  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

comes  forward,  seizes  them  and  carries  them  into  the  cav- 
ern.    Glycine  returns,  having  recovered  herself. 

GLYCINE. 

Shame  !   Nothing  hurt  me  ! 

If  some  fierce  beast  hath  gored  him,  he  must  needs 
Speak  with  a  strange  voice.     Wounds  cause  thirst  and  hoarse- 
ness ! 

Speak,  Bethlen  !  or  but  moan.     St. — St No-Bethlen  ! 

If  I  turn  back  and  he  should  be  found  dead  here, 

[she  creeps  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  cavern. 
I  should  go  mad  ! — Again  ! — 'Twas  my  own  heart ! 
Hush,  coward  heart !  better  beat  loud  with  fear, 
Than  break  with  shame  and  anguish  ! 

[  As  she  approaches  to  enter  the  cavern,  Kiuprili  stops  her. 
Glycine  shrieks. 

Saints  protect  me ! 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 
Swear  then  by  all  thy  hopes,  by  all  thy  fears — 

GLYCINE. 
Save  me ! 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 
Swear  secrecy  and  silence  ! 

GLYCINE. 

I  swear ! 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 
Tell  what  thou  art,  and  what  thou  seekest  ? 

GLYCINE. 

Only 
A  harmless  orphan  youth,  to  bring  him  food — 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 
Wherefore  in  this  wood  ? 

GLYCINE. 
Alas !  it  was  his  purpose- 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

With  what  intention  came  he  ?     Would'st  thou  save  him, 
Hide  nothing ! 

GLYCINE. 

Save  him  !     O  forgive  his  rashness  ! 
He  is  good,  and  did  not  know  that  thou  wert  human  I 


Z A  POLY  A.  275 


RAAB  KIUPRILI.  (repeats  the  word.} 

Human  ?  [then  sternly. 

With  what  design  ? 

GLYCINE. 
To  kill  thee,  or 

If  that  thou  wert  a  spirit,  to  compel  thee 
By  prayers,  and  with  the  shedding  of  his  blood, 
To  make  disclosure  of  his  parentage. 
But  most  of  all — 

ZAPOLYA.  (rushing  out  from  the  cavern.) 

Heaven's  blessing  on  thee  !   Speak  ! 

GLYCINE. 
Whether  his  Mother  live,  or  perished  here ! 

ZAPOLYA. 

Angel  of  Mercy,  I  was  perishing 

And  thou  didst  bring  me  food  :  and  now  thou  bring'st 
The  sweet,  sweet  food  of  hope  arid  consolation 
To  a  mother's  famished  heart !     His  name,  sweet  maiden  ? 

GLYCINE. 

E'en  till  this  morning  we  were  wont  to  name  him 
Bethlen  Bathory  ! 

ZAPOLYA. 

Even  till  this  morning  ? 

This  morning?  when  iny  weak  faith  failed  me  wholly! 
Pardon,  O  thou  that  portion'st  out  our  sufferance, 
And  fill'st  again  the  widow's  empty  cruse  1 
Say  on  ! 

GLYCINE. 

The  false  ones  charged  the  valiant  youth 
With  treasonous  words  of  Emerick — 

ZAPOLYA. 

Ha  !  my  son  t 
GLYCINE. 
And  of  Lord  Casimir — 

RAAB  KIUPRILI.    (aside.) 
O  agony  !  my  son  I 

GLYCINE. 
But  my  dear  lady — 

ZAFOLYA  and  RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

Who? 


276  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

GLYCINE. 

Lady  Sarolta 
Frowned  and  discharged  these  bad  men. 

RAAB  KIUPRILI.  (turning  off,  and  to  himself.} 

Righteous  Heaven 

Sent  me  a  daughter  once,  and  I  repined 
That  it  was  not  a  son.     A  son  was  given  me. 
My  daughter  died,  and  I  scarce  shed  a  tear  : 
And  lo  !  that  son  became  my  curse  and  infamy. 
ZAPOLYA.  (embraces  Glycine.) 
Sweet  innocent !  and  you  came  here  to  seek  him, 
And  bring  him  food.     Alas!  thou  fear'st  ? 

GLYCINE. 

Not  much ! 

My  own  dear  lady,  when  I  was  a  child, 
Embraced  me  oft,  but  her  heart  never  beat  so. 
For  I  too  am  an  orphan,  motherless  ! 

RAAB  KIUPRILI.  (to  Zapolya.) 
O  yet  beware,  lest  hope's  brief  flash  but  deepen 
The  after  gloom,  and  make  the  darkness  stormy! 
In  that  last  conflict,  following  our  escape, 
The  usurper's  cruelty  had  clogged  our  flight 
With  many  a  babe,  and  many  a  childing  mother. 
This  maid  herself  is  one  of  numberless 
Planks  from  the  same  vast  wreck.  [Then  to  Glycine  again. 

Well!   Casiinir's  wife— 
GLYCINE. 

She  is  always  gracious,  and  so  praised  the  old  man 
That  his  heart  overflowed,  and  made  discovery 
That  in  this  wood— 

ZAPOLYA.  (in  agitation.) 
O  speak  ! 

GLYCINE. 

A  wounded  lady — 
[Zapolya  faints — they  both  support  her. 

GLYCINE. 
Is  that  his  mother  ? 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 
She  would  fain  believe  it, 

Weak  though  the  proofs  be.     Hope  draws  towards  itself 
The  flame  with  which  it  kindles.  [Horn  heard  without. 

To  the  cavern  I 
Quick!  quick  I 


Z A  POLY  A.  277 


GLYCINE. 
Perchance  some  huntsmen  of  the  king's. 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 
Emerick  ? 

GLYCINE. 

He  came  this  morning — 

(They  retire  to  the  cavern,  bearing  Zapolya.    Then  enter  BETHLEK 
armed  with  a  boar-spear.} 

BETHLEN. 

I  had  a  glimpse 

Of  some  fierce  shape  ;  and  but  that  Fancy  often 
Is  Nature's  intermeddler,  and  cries  halves 
With  the  outward  sight,  I  should  believe  I  saw  it 
Bear  off  some  human  prey.     O  my  preserver  ! 
Bathory  !  Father  !  Yes,  thou  deserv'st  that  name  ! 
Thou  didst  not  mock  me  !  These  are  blessed  findings  ! 
The  secret  cypher  of  my  destiny  [looking  at  his  signet. 

Stands  here  inscribed  :  it  is  the  seal  of  fate  ! 
Ha ! — (observing  the  cave.)      Had  ever  monster  fitting  lair,  tis 

yonder ! 

Thou  yawning  Den,  I  well  remember  thee  ! 
Mine  eyes  deceived  me  not.     Heaven  leads  me  on ! 
Now  for  a  blast,  loud  as  a  king's  defiance, 
To  rouse  the  monster  couchant  o'er  his  ravine  ! 

[Slows  the  horn — then  a  pausa- 
Another  blast !  and  with  another  swell 
To  you,  ye  charmed  watchers  of  this  wood  ! 
If  haply  I  have  come,  the  rightful  heir 
Of  vengeance  :  if  in  me  survive  the  spirits 
Of  those,  whose  guiltless  blood  flowed  streaming  here! 

[Slows  again  louder. 

Still  silent  ?     Is  the  monster  gorged  ?     Heaven  shield  me  ! 
Thou,  faithful  spear  !  be  both  my  torch  and  guide. 
(As  Bethlen  is  about  to  enter,  Kiuprili  speaks  from  the  cavern 

unseen.) 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

Withdraw  thy  foot !     Retract  thine  idle  spear 
And  wait  obedient ! 

BETHLEN.  (in  amazement.) 

Ha  !  What  art  thou  ?  speak ! 

RAAB  KIUPRILI.  (still  unseen.) 
Avengers ! 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


BETHLEN. 

By  a  dying  mother's  pangs 
E'en  such  am  I.     Receive  me  ! 

RAAB  KIUFRILI.    (still  unseen.) 
Wait!  Beware! 

At  thy  first  step,  thou  treadeet  upon  Jhe  light, 
Thenceforth  must  darkling  flow,  and  sink  in  darkness  ! 

BETHLEN. 

Ha  !  see  my  boar-spear  trembles  like  a  reed  ! 
Oh,  fool  !  mine  eyes  are  duped  by  my  own  shuddering.  — 
Those  piled  thoughts,  built  up  in  solitude, 
Year  following  year,  that  pressed  upon  my  heart 
As  on  the  altar  of  some  -unknown  God, 
Tuen,  as  if  touched  by  fire  from  heaven  descending, 
Blazed  up  within  me  at  a  father's  name  — 
Do  they  desert  me  now  !  —  at  my  last  trial  ? 
VOICE  of  command  !    arid  thou,  O  hidden  LIGHT  ! 
I  have  obeyed  !     Declare  ye  by  what  name 
I  dare  invoke  you  !    Tell  what  sacrifice 
\Viil  make  you  gracious. 

RAAB  KIUPRILI.  (still  unseen.) 

Patience  !     Truth  !    Obedience  ! 
Be  thy  whole  soul  transparent  !  so  the  Light, 
Thou  seekest,  *iiay  enshrine  itself  within  thee  ! 
Thy  name  ? 

BETHLEN. 

Ask  rather  the  poor  roaming  savage, 
Whose  infancy  no  holy  rite  had  blest. 
To  him,  perchance,  rude  spoil  or  ghastly  trophy, 
In  chase  or  battle  won,  have  given  a  name. 
1  have  none  —  but  like  a  dog  have  answered 
To  the  chance  sound  which  he  that  fed  me,  called  me  I 

RAAB  KIUFRILI.  (still  unseen.) 
Thy  birth-place? 

BETHLEN. 

Deluding  spirits  !     Do  ye  mock  me  ? 
Question  the  Night  !     Bid  Darkness  tell  its  birth-place  ! 
Yet  hear  !     Within  your  old  oak's  hollow  trunk, 
Where  the  bats  cling,  have  I  surveyed  my  cradle  ! 
The  mother-falcon  hath  her  nest  above  it, 
And  in  it  the  wolf  litters  !  ---  1  invoke  you, 
Tell  me,  ye  secret  ones  !  if  ye  beheld  me 


ZAPOLYA.  279 


As  I  stood  there,  like  one  who  having  delved 
For  hidden  gold  hath  found  a  talisman, 
O  tell  !  what  rights,  what  offices  of  duty 
This  signet  doth  command  ?     What  rebel  spirits 
Owe  homage  to  its  Lord  ? 

RAAB  KIUPRILI.  (still  unseen.) 

More,  guiltier,  mightier, 
Than  thou  may'st  summon  !     Wait  the  destined  hour  ! 

BETHLEN. 

0  yet  again,  and  with  more  clamorous  prayer, 

1  importune  ye  !     Mock  me  no  more  with  shadows  ! 
This  sable  mantle — tell,  dread  voice  !  did  this 
Enwrap  one  fatherless  ? 

ZAPOLYA.  (unseen.) 

One  fatherless  ! 

BETHLEN.  (starting.) 

A  sweeter  voice  ! — A  voice  of  love  and  pity  ! 
Was  it  the  softened  echo  of  mine  own  ? 
Sad  echo  !  but  the  hope,  it  killed,  was  sickly, 
And  ere  it  died  it  had  been  mourned  as  dead  ! 
One  other  hope  yet  lives  within  iny  soul : 
Quick  let  me  ask  ! — while  yet  this  stifling  fear, 
This  stop  of  the  heart,  leaves  utterance ! — Are — are  these 
The  sole  remains  of  her  that  gave  me  life  ? 
Have  I  a  mother  ? 

(ZAPOLYA  rushes  out  to  embrace  Mm.     BETHLEN  starts.) 

Ha! 

ZAPOLYA.  (embracing  him.) 
My  son  !  my  son  ! 
A.  wretched — Oh  no,  no  !  a  blest — a  happy  mother ! 

[They  embrace.    Kiuprili  and  Glycine  come  forward  and  the 
curtain  drops. 


ACT  III.-SCENE  I. 

A  ttately  room  in  Lord  Casimir's  castle.    Enter  EMERICK  and 

LASKA. 
EMERICK. 

I  do  perceive  thou  hast  u  tender  conscience, 
Laska,  in  all  things  that  concern  thine  own 
Interest  or  safety. 


*8o  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


LASKA. 

In  this  sovereign  presence 
I  can  fear  nothing,  but  your  dread  displeasure. 

BMERICK. 

Perchance,  thou  think'st  it  strange,  that  J  of  all  men 
Should  covet  thus  the  love  of  fair  Sarolta, 
Dishonoring  Casimir  ? 

LASKA. 

Far  be  it  from  me  ! 
Your  Majesty's  love  and  choice  bring  honor  with  them. 

EMERIOK. 

Perchance,  thou  hast  heard,  that  Casimir  is  my  friend, 
Fought  for  me,  yea,  for  my  sake,  set  at  naught 
A  parent's  blessing  ;  braved  a  father's  curse  ? 

LASKA.  (aside.) 

Would  I  but  knew,  now,  what  his  Majesty  meant  I 
Oh  yes,  Sire  !  'tis  our  common  talk,  how  Lord 
Kiuprili,  my  Lord's  father  — 

EMERICK. 

'Tis  your  talk, 
Is  it,  good  statesmen  Laska  ? 

LASKA. 

No,  not  mine, 

Not  mine,  an  please  your  Majesty  !     There  are 
Some  insolent  malcontents  indeed  that  talk  thus  — 
Nay  worse,  mere  treason.    As  Bathory's  son, 
The  fool  that  ran  into  the  monster's  jaws. 

EMERICK. 

Well,  'tis  a  loyal  monster  if  he  rids  us 
Of  traitors  !     But  art  sure  the  youth's  devoured  ? 

LASKA. 

Not  a  limb  leii-yn  please  your  Majesty  ! 
Arid  that  unhappy 


EMERICK. 

Thou  followed'st  her 
Into  the  wood  ?  [Laska  bows  assent. 

Henceforth  then  I'll  believe 
That  jealpjsy  can  make  a  hare  a  lion. 


ZAPOLYA.  281 


LASKA. 

Scarce  had  I  got  the  first  glimpse  of  her  veil 
When,  with  a  horrid  roar  that  made  the  leaves 
Of  the  wood  shake — 

EMERICK. 
Made  thee  shake  like  a  leaf  ! 

LASKA. 

The  war-wolf  leapt ;  at  the  first  plunge  he  seized  her ; 
Forward  I  rushed  ! 

EMERICK. 
Most  marvellous ! 
LASKA. 

Hurled  my  javelin  j 
Which  from  his  dragon-scales  recoiling — 

EMERICK. 

Enough ! 

And  take,  friend,  this  advice.     When  next  thou  tonguest  it, 
Hold  constant  to  thy  exploit  with  this  monster, 
And  leave  untouched  your  common  talk  aforesaid, 
What  your  Lord  did,  or  should  have  done. 

LASKA. 

Jlfytalk? 

The  saints  f  rbid  I     I  always  said,  for  my  part, 
'  Was  not  the  king  Lord  Casimir's  dearest  friend  ? 
Was  not  that  friend  a  king  ?     Whatever  he  did 
'Twas  all  from  pure  love  to  his  Majesty.' 

EMERICK. 

And  this  then  was  thy  talk  ?     While  knave  and  coward, 
Both  strong  within  thee,  wrestle  for  the  uppermost, 
In  slips  the  fool  arid  takes  the  place  of  both. 
Babbler !  Lord  Casiimr  did,  as  thou  and  all  men. 
He  loved  himself,  loved  honors,  wealth,  dominion. 
All  these  were  set  upon  a  father's  head : 
Good  truth  !  a  most  unlucky  accident ! 
For  he  but  wished  to  hit  the  prize  ;  not  graze 
The  head  that  bore  it :  so  with  steady  eye 
Off  flew  the  parricidal  arrow. — Even 
As  Casirnir  loved  Einerick,  Emerick 
Loves  Casimir,  intends  him  no  dishonor. 
He  winked  not  then,  for  love  of  me  forsooth! 
For  love  of  me  now  let  him  wink !     Or  if 
The  dame  prove  half  as  wise  as  she  is  fair, 
He  may  still  pass  his  hand,  and  find  all  smooth, 

[passing  his  hand  across  Ms  brow* 


282  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

LASKA. 

Your  Majesty's  reasoning  has  convinced  me. 

EMERICK.  (with  a  slight  start,  as  one  who  had  been  talking  aloud 
to  himself:  then  with  scorn.) 

Thee! 

Tis  well  !  and  more  than  meant.     For  by  my  faith 
I  had  half  forgotten  thee. — Thou  hast  the  key  ?  [Laska  bows. 

Arid  in  your  lady's  chamber  there's  full  space  ? 

LASKA. 
Between  the  wall  and  arras  to  conceal  you. 

EMERICK. 

Here  !     This  purse  is  but  an  earnest  of  thy  fortune, 
If  thou  prov'st  faithful.     But  if  thou  betray'st  me, 
Hark  you  ! — the  wolf,  that  shall  drag  thee  to  his  den 
Shall  be  no  fiction. 

[Exit  Emerick.    Laska  manet  with  a  key  in  one  hand,  and 
a  purse  in  the  other. 

LASKA. 

Well  then  !     Here  I  stand, 
Like  Hercules,  on  either  side  a  goddess. 
Call  this  (looking  at  the  purse] 

Preferment  j  this  (holding  up  the  key)  Fidelity ! 
And  first  my  golden  goddess  :  what  bids  she? 
Only  : — *  This  way,  your  Majesty  !  hush!     The  household 
Are  all  safe  lodged."1 — Then,  put  Fidelity 
Within  her  proper  wards,  just  turn  her  round — 
So — the  door  opens — arid  for  all  the  rest, 
'Tis  the  king's  deed,  not  Laska's.     Do  but  this 
And — '  I'm  the  mere  earnest  of  your  future  fortunes.' 
But  what  says  the  other  ? — Whisper  on  !    I  hear  you  ! 

{putting  the  key  to  his  ear. 
All  very  true  ! — but,  good  Fidelity  ! 
If  I  refuse  king  Emerick,  will  you  promise, 
And  swear  now,  to  unlock  the  dungeon  door, 
And  save  me  from  the  hangman  ?     Ay  !  you're  silent ! 
What,  not  a  word  in  answer  ?     A  clear  non-suit ! — 
Now  for  one  look  to  see  that  all  are  lodged 
At  the  due  distance — then — yonder  lies  the  road 
For  Laska  and  his  royal  friend  king  Emerick ! 

[Exit  Laska.     Then  enter  BATHOBY  and  BETHLEN 

BETHLEN. 

He  looked  as  if  he  were  some  god  disguised 
In  an  old  warrior's  venerable  shape 


ZAPOLYA,  283 


To  guard  and  guide  iny  mother.     Is  there  not 
Chapel  or  oratory  in  this  mansion  ? 

OLD  BATHORY. 
Even  so. 

BETHLEN. 

From  that  place  then  am  I  to  take 
A  helm  and  breast-plate,  both  inlaid  with  gold, 
And  the  good  sword  that  once  was  Raab  Kiuprili's. 

OLD  BATHORY. 

Those  very  arms  this  day  Sarolta  showed  me — 
With  wistful  look.     I'm  lost  in  wild  conjectures ! 

BETHLEN 

0  tempt  me  not,  e'en  with  a  wandering  guess, 
To  break  the  first  command  a  mother's  will 
Imposed,  a  mother's  voice  made  known  to  me  ! 

*  Ask  not,  my  son ; '  said  she,  '  our  names  or  thine. 
The  shadow  of  the  eclipse  is  passing  off 
The  full  orb  of  thy  destiny  I     Already 
The  motor  Crescent  glitters  forth  and  sheds 
O'er  the  yet  lingering  haze  a  phantom  light. 
Thou  canst  not  hasten  it !    Leave  then  to  Heaven 
The  work  of  Heaven :  and  with  a  silent  spirit 
Sympathize  with  the  powers  that  work  in  silence  I ' 
Thus  spake  she,  and  she  looked  as  she  were  then 
Fresh  from  some  heavenly  vision  ! 

[  Re-enter  Laska,  not  perceiving  them. 

LASKA. 

All  asleep  ! 
[Then  observing  Bethlen,  stands  in  idiot-affright. 

1  must  speak  to  it  first— Put — put  the  question  ! 

I'll  confess  all  !  [Stammering  with  fear. 

OLD  BATHORY. 
Laska  !  what  ails  thee,  man  ? 
LASKA.  (pointing  to  BETHLEN.) 
There  t 

OLD  BATHORY. 

I  see  nothing  !  where  ? 

LASKA. 

He  docs  not  see  it ! 
Bethlen,  torment  me  not ! 

BETHLEN. 
Soft !     Rouse  him  gently  ! 


284  COLERIDGE  'S  POEMS. 

He  hath  outwatched  his  hour,  and  half  asleep, 
With  eyes  half  open,  mingles  sight  with  dreams. 

OLD  BATHORY. 

Ho!  Laska  !     Don't  you  know  us  ?  'tis  Bathory 
And  Bethlen ! 

LASKA.  (recovering  himself.} 
Good  now !     Ha  !  ha  !     An  excellent  trick. 
Afraid  ?    Nay,  no  offence  !     But  I  must  laugh. 
But  are  you  sure  now,  that  'tis  you,  yourself  V 

BETHLEN.  (holding  up  his  hand  as  if  to  strike  him.) 
Would'st  be  convinced  ? 

LASKA. 

No  nearer,  pray  !  consider  ! 

If  it  should  prove  his  ghost,  the  touch  would  freeze  me 
To  a  tombstone.     No  nearer  ! 

BETHLEN. 

The  fool  is  drunk  ! 
LASKA.  (still  more  recovering.) 
Well,  now  !  I  love  a  brave  man  to  my  heart. 
1  myself  braved  the  monster,  and  would  fain 
Have  saved  the  false  one  from  the  fate  she  tempted. 

OLD  BATHORY. 
You,  Laska? 

BETHLEN.  (to  Bathory.} 
Mark  !  Heaven  grant  it  may  be  so  ! 
Glycine  ? 

LASKA. 

She  !     I  traced  her  by  the  voice. 
You'll  scarce  believe  me,  when  I  say  I  heard 
The  close  of  a  song  :  the  poor  wretch  had  been  singing  : 
As  if  she  wished  to  compliment  the  war-wolf 
At  once  with  music  and  a  meal ! 

BETHLEN.  (to  Bathory.) 

Mark  that ! 
LASKA. 

At  the  next  moment  I  beheld  her  running, 
Wringing  her  hands,  with,  'Bethlen!  0  poor  Bethlen  /f 
I  almost  fear,  the  sudden  noise  I  made, 
Rushing  impetuous  through  the  brake,  alarmed  her. 
She  stopt,  then  mad  with  fear,  turned  round  and  ran 
Into  the  monster's  gripe.     One  piteous  scream 
I  heard.    There  was  no  second— I — 


ZAPOLYA.  285 


BETHLEN. 

Stop  there  ! 

We'll  spare  your  modesty  !     Who  daras  not  honor 
Laska's  brave  tongue,  and  high  heroic  fancy  ? 

LASKA. 

You  too,  Sir  Knight,  have  come  back  safe  and  sound  ! 
You  played  the  hero  at  a  cautious  distance ! 
Or  was  it  that  you  sent  the  poor  girl  forward 
To  stay  the  monster's  stomach  ?     Dainties  quickly 
Pall  on  the  taste  and  cloy  the  appetite  ! 

OLD  BATHORY. 

Laska,  beware !  Forget  not  what  thou  art ! 
Should'st  thou  but  dream  thou'rt  valiant,  cross  thyself ! 
And  ache  all  over  at  the  dangerous  fancy ! 

LASKA. 

What  then  !  you  swell  upon  my  lady's  favor, 

High  Lords  and  perilous  of  one  day's  growth  ! 

But  other  judges  now  sit  on  the  bench  ! 

And  haply,  Laska  hath  found  audience  there, 

Where  to  defend  the  treason  of  a  son 

Might  end  in  lifting  up  both  son  and  father 

Still  higher  ;  to  a  height  from  which  indeed 

You  both  may  drop,  but,  spite  of  fate  and  fortune, 

Will  be  secured  from  falling  to  the  ground. 

'Tis  possible  too,  young  man  !  that  royal  Emerick, 

At  Laska's  rightful  suit,  may  make  enquiry 

By  whom  seduced,  the  maid  so  strangely  missing — 

BETHLEN. 

Soft !  my  good  Laska !  might  it  not  suffice, 
If  to  yourself,  being  Lord  Casimir's  steward, 
I  should  make  record  of  Glycine's  fate  ? 

LASKA. 

'"Tis  well  !  it  shall  content  me  !  though  your  fear 
Has  all  the  credit  of  these  lowered  tones,      [then  very   pompously, 
First  we  demand  the  manner  of  her  death  ? 

BETHLEN. 

Nay  !  that's  superfluous  !     Have  you  not  just  told  us, 
That  you  yourself,  led  by  impetuous  valor, 
Witnessed  the  whole  ?     My  tale's  of  later  date. 
After  the  fate,  from  which  your  valor  strove 
In  vain  to  rescue  the  rash  maid,  I  saw  her  I 


286  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

LASKA. 

Glycine  ? 

BETHLEN. 

Nay  !  Dare  I  accuse  wise  Laska, 
Whose  w«rds  find  access  to  a  monarch's  ear, 
Of  a  base,  braggart  lie?     It  must  have  been 
Her  spirit  that  appeared  to  me.     But  haply 
I  come  too  late  ?     It  has  itself  delivered 
Its  own  commission  to  you  ? 

OLD  BATHORY. 

'Tis  most  likely ! 

And  the  ghost  doubtless  vanished,  when  we  entered 
And  found  brave  Laska  staring  wide — at  nothing  1 

LASKA. 

'Tis  well !  You've  ready  wits !  I  shall  report  them, 
With  all  due  honor,  to  his  Majesty  ! 
Treasure  them  up,  I  pray  !     A  certain  person, 
Whom  the  king  flatters  with  his  confidence, 
Tells  you,  his  royal  friend  asks  startling  questions! 
'Tis  but  a  hint !     And  now  what  says  the  ghost  I 

BETHLEN. 

Listen  !  for  thus  it  spake :  '  Say  thou  to  Laska, 
Glycine,  knowing  all  thy  thoughts  engrossed 
In  thy  new  office  of  king's  fool  and  knave. 
Foreseeing  thou1  It  forget  with  thine  own  hand 
To  make  due  penance  for  the  wrongs  thou'st  caused  her, 
For  thy  soul's  safety,  doth  consent  to  take  it 
From  Bethleris  cudgel  '—thus.  [beats  him  off. 

Off  !  scoundrel  !  off  ! 

[Laska  runs  away* 
OLD  BATHORY. 

The  sudden  swelling  of  this  shallow  dastard 
Tells  of  a  recent  storm  :  the  first  disruption 
Of  the  black  cloud  that  hangs  and  threatens  o'er  us. 

BETHLEN. 

E'en  this  reproves  my  loitering.     Say  where  lies 
The  oratory  ? 

OLD  BATHORY. 

Ascend  yon  flight  of  stairs  ! . 
Midway  the  corridor  a  silver  lamp 
Hangs  o'er  the  entrance  of  Sarolta's  chamber, 
And  facing  it,  the  low  arched  oratory  1 


ZAPOLYA  28? 

Me  thou'lt  find  watching  at  the  outward  gate  : 
For  a  petard  might  burst  the  bars,  unheard 
By  the  drenched  porter,  and  Sarolta  hourly 
Expects  Lord  Casimir,  spite  of  Emerick's  message! 

BETHLriN, 

There  1  will  meet  you  !     And  till  then  good  night ! 
Dear  good  old  man,  good  night  1 

OLD  BATHORY. 

O  yet  one  moment  I 

What  I  repelled,  when  it  did  seem  my  own, 
I  cling  to,  now  'tis  parting — call  me  father  I 
It  cannot  now  mislead  thee.     O  my  son, 
Ere  yet  our  tongues  have  learnt  another  name, 
Beth! en  ! — say— Father  to  me  ! 

BETHLEN. 

Now>  and  forever 

My  father  !  other  sire  than  thou,  on  earth 
I  never  had,  a  dearer  could  not  have  ! 
From  the  base  earth  you  raised  me  to  your  arms, 
And  I  would  leap  from  off  a  throne,  and  kneeling, 
Ask  Heaven's  blessing  from  thy  lips.     My  father  1 

BATHORY. 
Go !    Go ! 

[Bethlen  breaks  off  and  exit.    Bathory  looks  affectionately 
after  him. 

May  every  star  now  shining  over  us, 

Be  as  an  angel's  eye,  to  watch  and  guard  him  !       [Exit  Bathory, 

Scent  changes  to  a  splendid  Bed-chamber,  hung  with  tapestry. 

SAROLTA  in  an  elegant  Night  Dress,  and  an  Attendant. 

ATTENDANT. 
We  all  did  love  her,  madam  ! 

SAROLTA. 

She  deserved  it  1 

Luckless  Glycine  \  rash  unhappy  girl ! 
'Twas  the  first  time  she  e'er  deceived  me. 

ATTENDANT. 

She  was  in  love,  and  had  she  not  died  thus, 
With  grief  for  Bethlen's  loss,  and  fear  of  Laska, 
She  would  have  pined  herself  to  death  at  home. 

SAROLTA. 
Has  the  youth's  father  come  back  from  his  search  ? 


288  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


ATTENDANT. 

He  never  will,  I  fear  me,  O  dear  lady ! 

That  Laska  did  so  triumph  o'er  the  old  man — 

Tt  was  quite  cruel — '  'You'll  be  sure,'  said  he, 

*To  meet  with  PART  at  least  of  your  son  Bethlen, 

Or  the  war-wolf  must  have  a  quick  digestion  I 

Go  !     /Search  the  wood  by  all  means  !  Go  !  I  pray  you  / ' 

SAROLTA. 
Inhuman  wretch ! 

ATTENDANT. 

And  old  Bathory  answered 
With  a  sad  smile,  '  It  is  a  witch's  prayer, 
And  may  Heaven  read  it  backwards.'     Though  she  was  rash, 
'Twas  a  small  fault  for  such  a  punishment  I 

SAROLTA. 

Nay  !  'twas  my  grief,  and  not  my  anger  spoke. 

Small  fault  indeed  !  but  leave  me,  my  good  girl ! 

I  feel  a  weight  that  only  prayer  can  lighten.         [Exit  Attendant. 

O  they  were  innocent,  and  yet  have  perished 

In  their  May  of  life  ;  and  Vice  grows  old  in  triumph. 

Is  it  Mercy's  hand,  that  for  the  bad  man  holds 

Life's  closing  gate? 

Still  passing  thence  petitionary  Hours 
To  woo  Wie  obdurate  spirit  to  repentance  ? 
Or  would  this  chillness  tell  me,  that  there  is 
Guilt  too  enormous  to  be  duly  punished, 
Save  by  increase  of  guilt  ?    The  Powers  of  Evil 
Are  jealous  claimants.     Guilt  too  hath  its  ordeal 
And  Hell  its  own  probation  ! — Merciful  Heaven, 
Rather  than  this,  pour  down  upon  thy  suppliant 
Disease,  and  agony,  and  comfortless  want  1 
O  send  us  forth  to  wander  on,  unsheltered  I 
Make  our  food  bitter  with  despised  tears ! 
Let  viperous  scorn  hiss  at  us  as  we  pass  1 
Yea,  let  us  sink  down  at  our  enemy's  gate, 
And  beg  forgiveness  and  a  morsel  of  bread ! 
With  all  the  heaviest  worldly  visitations. 
Let  the  dire  father's  curse  that  hovers  o'er  us 
Work  out  its  dread  fulfilment,  and  the  spirit 
Of  wronged  Kiuprili  be  appeased.     But  only, 
Only,  O  merciful  in  vengeance !  let  not 
That  plague  turn  inward  on  my  Casimir's  soul! 


ZAPOL  YA.  289 


Scare  thence  the  fiend  Ambition,  and  restore  him 
To  his  own  heart !     O  save  him  1     Save  my  husband  ! 

{During  the  latter  part  of  this  speech  Emericlt  comes  for 
ward  from  his  hiding-place.    Sarotta  seeing  him,  withou: 
recognizing  him. 
In  such  a  shape  a  father's  curse  should  come. 

EMERICK.  (advancing.) 
Kear  not ! 

SAROLTA. 
Who  art  thou  ?    Robber  ?    Traitor  ? 

EME.RICK. 

Friend  i 

Who  in  good  hour  hath  startled  these  dark  fancies, 
Rapacious  traitors,  that  would  fain  depose 
Joy,  love,  and  beauty  from  their  natural  thrones : 
Those  lips,  those  angel  eyes,  that  regal  forehead. 

SAROLTA 

Strengthen  me,  Heaven  !    I  must  not  seem  afraid  !  [aside, 

The  king  to-night  then  deigns  to  play  the  masker. 
What  seeks  your  Majesty  ? 

EMERICK. 
Sarolta's  love ; 
And  Emerick's  power  lies  prostrate  at  her  feet. 

SAROLTA. 

Heaven  guard  the  sovereign's  power  from  such  debasement  I 
For  rather,' Sire,  let  it  descend  in  vengeance 
On  the  base  ingrate,  on  the  faithless  slave 
Who  dared  unbar  the  doors  of  these  retirements  ! 
For  whom  ?    Has  Casimir  deserved  this  insult  ? 
O  my  misgiving  heart?     If — if — from  Heaven, 
Yet  not  from  you,  Lord  Emerick ! 

EMERICK. 

Chiefly  from  me. 

Has  he  not  like  an  ingrate  robbed  my  court 
Of  Beauty's  star,  and  kept  my  heart  in  darkness  ? 
First  then  on  him  I  will  administer  justice — 
It  not  in  mercy,  yet  in  love  and  rapture.  [Seizes  n<c+t 

SAROLTA. 
Help  !    Treason  1    Help  I 

10 


?9°  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

EMERICK. 

Call  louder !     Scream  again, 
Here'*}  none  can  hear  you  I 

SAROLTA. 
Hear  me,  hear  me,  Heaven! 

EMERICK. 

Nay,  why  this  rage  ?    Who  best  deserves  you  ?     Casimir, 
Emerick's  bought  implement,  the  jealous  slave 
That  rnews  you  up  with  bolts  and  bars  ?  or  Emerick 
Who  proffers  you  a  throne  !     Nay,  mine  you  shall  be. 
Hence  with  this  fond  resistance  !     Yield  ;  then  live 
This  month  a  widow  and  the  next*a  queen  1 

SAROLTA. 

Yet,  yet  for  one  brief  moment  (struggling. 

Unhand  me,  I  conjure  you. 

[She  throws  him  off  and  rushes  towards  a  toilet.  Emerick 
follows,  and  as  she  takes  a  dagger,  he  grasps  it  in  her 
hand. 

EMERICK. 

Ha  !  Ha  !  a  dagger ; 
A  seemly  ornament  for  a  lady's  casket  J 
'Tis  held  devotion  is  akin  to  love, 
But  yours  is  tragic  !     Love  in  war  !     It  charms  me, 
And  makes  your  beauty  worth  a  king's  embraces  ! 

(During  this  Speech  BETHLEN  enters  armed.) 

BETHLEN. 
Ruffian,  forbear !    Turn,  turn  and  front  my  sword  I 

EMERICK. 
Pish  !  who  is  this  ? 

SAROLTA. 

O  sleepless  eye  of  Heaven  I 

A  blest,  a  blessed  spirit !     Whence  earnest  thou  ? 
May  I  still  call  thee  Bethlen  ? 

BETHLEN. 

Ever,  lady, 
Your  faithful  soldier  I 

EMERICK. 

Insolent  slave  I    Depart! 
Know'st  thou  not  me  ? 


Z A  POLY  A.  291 


BETHLEN. 

I  know  thou  art  a  villain 

And  coward  !     That  thy  devilish  purpose  marks  thee ! 
What  else,  this  lady  must  instruct  my  sword  1 

SAROLTA. 

Monster,  retire  !     O  touch  him  not,  thou  blest  one ! 
This  is  the  hour  that  fiends  and  damned  spirits 
Do  walk  the  earth,  and  take  what  form  they  list  I 
Yon  devil  hath  assumed  a  king's  T 

BETHLEN. 

Usurped  it ! 
EMERICK. 

The  king  will  play  the  devil  with  thee  indeed  I 
But  that  I  mean  to  hear  thee  howl  on  the  rack, 
I  would  debase  this  sword,  and  lay  thee  prostrate 
At  this  thy  paramour's  feet !  then  drag  her  forth 
Stained  with  adulterous  blood,  and  [then  to  Sarolta 

— mark  you,  traitress  I 

Strumpeted  first,  then  turned  adrift  to  beggary  1 
Thou  prayed'st  for't  too. 

SAROLTA. 

Thou  art  so  fiendish  wicked, 
That  in  thy  blasphemies  I  scarce  hear  thy  threats ! 

BETHLEN. 

Lady,  be  calm  !  fear  not  this  king  of  the  buskin  I 
A  king  \    Oh  laughter  I     A  king  Bajazet ! 
That  from  some  vagrant  actor's  tyring  room, 
Hath  stolen  at  once  his  speech  and  crown ! 

EMERICK. 

Ah!  treason  I 

Thou  hast  been  lessoned  and  tricked  up  for  this ! 
As  surely  as  the  wax  on  thy  death-warrant 
Shall  take  the  impression  of  this  royal  signet, 
So  plain  thy  face  hath  ta'en  the  mask  of  rebel ! 

[Emerick  points  Ms  hand  haughtily  towards  Bethlen,  who, 
catching  a  sight  of  the  signet,  seizes  his  hand  and  eager- 
ly observes  the  signet,  then  flings  the  hand  back  with  in 
dignantjoy. 

BETHLEN. 

It  must  be  so  !     'Tis  e'en  the  counterpart ! 
But  with  a  foul  usurping  cypher  on  it ! 
The  light  hath  flashed  from  Heaven,  and  I  must  follow  it ! 


292  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


0  curst  usurper !     O  thou  brother-murderer ! 
That  madest  a  star-bright  queen  a  fugitive  widow  ! 
Who  fillest  the  land  with  curses,  being  thyself 

All  curses  in  one  tyrant !  see  and  tremble  ! 

This  is  Kiuprili's  sword  that  now  hangs  o'er  thee  ! 

Kiuprili's  blasting  curse,  that  from  its  point 

Shoots  lightnings  at  thee.     Hark  !  in  Andreas'  name, 

Heir  of  his  vengeance,  hell-hound !  1  defy  thee. 

[They  fight,  and  just  as  Emerick  is  disarmed,  in  rushCAsi- 
MIR,  OLD  BATHONY,  and  attendants.  Casimir  runs  in  be- 
tween the  combatants,  and  parts  them :  in  the  struggle 
Bethleris  sword  is  thrown  down. 

CASIMIR. 

The  king  I  disarmed  too  by  a  stranger !     Speak  I 
What  may  this  mean  ? 

EMERICK. 

Deceived,  dishonored  lord  ! 

Ask  thou  yon  fair  adulteress  !     She  will  tell  thee 
A  tale,  which,  would'st  thou  be  both  dupe  and  traitor, 
Thou  wilt  believe  against  thy  friend  and  sovereign  1 
Thou  art  present  now,  and  a  friend's  duty  ceases  : 
To  thine  own  justice  leave  I  thine  own  wrongs. 
Of  half  thy  vengeance,  I  perforce  must  rob  thee, 
For  that  the  sovereign  claims.     To  thy  allegiance 

1  now  commit  this  traitor  and  assassin.     [ Then  to  the  Attendants. 
Hence  with  him  to  the  dungeon !  and  to-morrow, 

Ere  the  sun  rises, — Hark  !  your  heads  or  his  ! 

BETHLEX. 
Can  Hell  work  miracles  to  mock  Heaven's  justice  ? 

EMERICK. 

Who  speaks  to  him  dies  !    The  traitor  that  has  menaced 
His  king,  must  not  pollute  the  breathing  air, 
Even  with  a  word ! 

CASIMIR.  (to  Bathory.) 
Hence  with  him  to  the  dungeon  ! 
[Exit  Bethlen,  hurried  off  by  Bathory  and  Attendants, 

EMERICK. 

We  hunt  to-morrow  in  your  upland  forest : 
Thou  (to  Casimir)  wilt  attend  us  ;  arid  wilt  then  explain 
This  sudden  and  most  fortunate  arrival. 

I  Exit  Emerick  ;  Manent  Casimir  and  Sarolta. 


ZAPOL  YA.  293 


SAROLTA. 
My  lord  !  my  husband  !  look  whose  sword  lies  yonder  ! 

[Pointing  to  the  sword  which  Bethlen  had  been  disarmed  oj 

by  the  Attendants. 

It  is  Kiu prill's,  Casimir  ;  'tis  thy  father's  ! 
And  wielded  by  a  stripling's  arm,  it  baffled, 
Yea,  fell  like  Heaven's  own  lightnings  on  that  Tarquin. 

CASIMIR. 

Hush  !  hush  !  [In  an  under  voice, 

I  had  detected  ere  I  left  the  city 
The  tyrant's  curst  intent.     Lewd,  damned  ingrate  ! 
For  him  did  I  bring  down  a  father's  curse  ? 
Swift,  swift  must  be  our  means  !     To-morrow's  sun 
Sets  on  his  fate  or  mine  !     O  blest  Sarolta  !  ^Embracing  her. 

No  other  prayer,  late  penitent,  dare  I  offer, 
But  that  thy  spotless  virtues  may  prevail 
O'er  Gasimir's  crimes,  and  dead  Kiuprili's  curse. 

[Exeunt  consulting. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  I. 

A  glade  in  a  wood.    Enter  CASIMIR  looking  anxiously  around. 

CASIMIR. 

This  needs  must  be  the  spot !     O,  here  he  comes  ! 
Enter  LORD  RUDOLPH. 

Well  met,  Lord  Rudolph  ! 

Your  whisper  was  not  lost  upon  my  ear, 
And  I  dare  trust — 

LORD  RUDOLPH. 

Enough  !  the  time  is  precious  ! 
You  left  Tern  es war  late  on  yester-eve  ? 
And  sojourned  there  some  hours  ? 

CASIMIR. 

I  did  so ! 

LORD  RUDOLPH. 

Heard  you 

Aught  of  a  hunt  preparing  ? 

CASIMIR. 

Yes  ]  and  met 
The  assembled  huntsmen !  _ 


294  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


LORD  RUDOLPH. 

Was  there  110  word  given  ? 
CASIMIR. 

The  word  for  me  was  this  ; — The  royal  Leopard 
Chases  thy  milk-white  dedicated  Hind. 

LORD  RUDOLPH. 
Your  answer  ? 

CASTMIR. 

As  the  word  proves  false  or  true 
Will  Casimir  cross  the  hunt,  or  join  the  huntsmen  ! 

LORD  RUDOLPH. 
The  event  redeemed  their  pledge  ? 

CASIMIR. 

It  did,  and  therefore 

Have  I  sent  back  both  pledge  and  invitation. 
The  spotless  Hind  hath  fled  to  them  for  shelter, 
And  bears  with  her  my  seal  of  fellowship  !     [They  take  hands „  tC*c, 

LORD  RUDOLPH. 

But  Emerick  !  how  when  you  reported  to  him 
Sarolta's  disappearance,  and  the  flight 
Of  Bethlen  with  his  guards  ? 

CASIMIR. 

O  he  received  it 

As  evidence  of  their  mutual  guilt.     In  fine, 
Witii  cozening  warmth  condoled  with,  and  dismissed  me. 

LORD  RUDOLPH. 

I  entered  as  the  door  was  closing  on  you  : 
His  eye  was  fixed,  yet  seemed  to  follow  you 
With  such  a  look  of  hate,  and  scorn,  and  triumph, 
As  if  he  had  you  in  the  toils  already, 
And  were  then  choosing  where  to  stab  you  first. 
But  hush  !  draw  back ! 

CASIMIR. 

This  nook  is  at  the  furthest 
Prom  any  beaten  track. 

LORD  RUDOLPH. 

There  !  mark  them  ! 

[Points  to  where  LASKA  and  PESTALUTZ  cross  the  Stage 
CASIMIR. 

Laska! 


ZAPOLYA.  295 


LORD  RUDOLPH. 

One  of  tho  two  I  recognized  this  morning  ; 
His  name  is  Pestalutz  :  a  trusty  ruffian, 
Whose  face  is  prologue  still  to  some  dark  murder. 
Beware  no  stratagem,  no  trick  of  message, 
Dispart  you  from  your  servants. 

CASIMIR.  (aside.) 

I  deserve  it. 

The  comrade  of  that  ruffian  is  my  servant ; 
The  one  I  trusted  most  and  most  preferred. 
But  we  must  part.     What  makes  the  king  so  late  ? 
It  was  his  wont  to  be  an  early  starrer. 

LORD  RUDOLPH. 

And  his  main  policy 

To  enthral  the  sluggard  nature  in  ourselves 
Is,  in  good  truth,  the  better  half  of  the  secret 
To  enthral  tlie  world  :  for  the  will  governs  all. 
See  the  sky  lowers  !  the  cross-winds  way wardly 
Chase  the  fantastic  masses  of  the  clouds 
With  a  wild  mockery  of  the  coming  hunt  I 

CASIMIR, 

Mark,  too,  the  edges  of  yon  lurid  mass ! 
Restless  and  vext,  as  if  some  angering  hand, 
With  fitful,  tetchy  snatch,  unrolled  and  plucked 
The  jetting  ringlets  of  the  vaporous  fleece  ! 
These  are  sure  signs  of  conflict  nigh  at  hand, 
And  elemental  war  1         A  single  trumpet  heard  at  some  distance* 

LORD  RUDOLPH. 

That  single  blast 

Announces  that  the  tyrant's  pawing  courser 
Neighs  at  the  gate.  [J.  volley  oftrump&t*. 

Hark !  now  the  king  comes  forth ! 
Forever  'midst  this  crash  of  horns  and  clarions 
He  mounts  his  steed,  which  proudly  rears  an-end, 
While  he  looks  round  at  ease,  and  scans  the  crowd, 
Vain  of  his  stately  form  and  horsemanship  I 
I  must  away !  iny  absence  may  be  noticed. 

CASIMIR. 

Oft  as  thou  canst,  essay  to  lead  the  hunt 
Hard  by  the  forest-skirts  ;  and  ere  high  noon 
Expect  our  sworn  confederates  from  Temeswar. 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


I  trust,  ere  yet  this  clouded  sun  slopes  westward, 
That  Emerick's  death,  or  Casimir's,  will  appease 
The  manes  of  Zapolya  and  Kiuprili  ! 

[Exit  Rudolph  and  manet  Casimir. 
The  traitor,  Laska  !  -- 
And  yet  Sarolta,  simple,  inexperienced, 
Could  see  him  as  he  was,  and  often  warned  me. 
Whence  learned  she  this  ?  —  O  she  was  innocent  ! 
And  to  be  innocent  is  nature's  wisdom  ! 
The  fledge-dove  knows  the  prowlers  of  the  air, 
Feared  soon  as  seen,  and  flutters  back  to  shelter. 
And  the  young  steed  recoils  upon  his  haunches, 
The  never-yet-seen  adder's  hiss  first  heard. 
O  surer  than  suspicion's  hundred  eyes 
Is  that  fine  sense,  which  to  the  pure  in  heart, 
By  mere  oppugnancy  of  their  own  goodness, 
Reveals  the  approach  of  evil.     Casimir  ! 
O  fool  !  O  parricide  !  through  yon  wood  didst  thou, 
With  fire  and  sword,  pursue  a  patriot  father, 
A  widow  and  an  orphan.     Dar'st  thou  then 
(Curse-laden  wretch)  put  forth  these  hands  to  raise 
The  ark,  all  sacred,  of  thy  country's  cause  ? 
Look  down  in  pity  on  thy  son,  Kiuprili  ! 
And  let  this  deep  abhorrence  of  his  crime, 
Unstained  with  selfish  fears,  be  his  atonement  ! 

0  strengthen  him  to  nobler  compensation 

In  the  deliverance  of  his  bleeding  country  !  [Exit  Casimir. 

Scene  changes  to  the  mouth  of  a  cavern  as  in  Act  II.    ZAPOLYA 
and  GLYCINE  discovered. 

ZAPOLYA. 

Our  friend  is  gone  to  seek  some  safer  cave  : 
Do  not  then  leave  me  long  alone,  Glycine  ! 
Having  enjoyed  thy  commune,  loneliness, 
That  but  oppressed  me  hitherto,  now  scares. 

GLYCINE 

1  shall  know  Bethlen  at  the  furthest  distance, 
And  the  same  moment  I  descry  him,  lady, 

I  will  return  to  you.  [Exit  Glycine. 

Enter  OLD  BATHORY,  speaking  as  he  enters. 

OLD  BATHORY. 
Who  hears  ?    A  friend  ! 
A  messenger  from  him  who  bears  the  signet  ! 

[Zapolya,  who  had  been  gazing  affectionately  after  Glycine, 
starts  at  Bathory's  voice. 


ZAPOLYA.  297 


ZAPOLYA. 
He  hath  the  watchword  !— Art  thou  not  Bathory  ? 

OLD  BATHORY. 

0  noble  lady !  greetings  from  your  son  !  [Bathory  kneels 

ZAPOLYA. 

Rise  !  rise !     Or  shall  I  rather  kneel  beside  thee, 
And  call  down  blessings  from  the  wealth  of  Heaven 
Upon  thy  honored  head  ?     When  thou  last  saw'st  me 

1  would  full  fain  have  knelt  to  thee,  and  could  not, 
Thou  dear  old  man  !     How  oft  since  then  in  dreams 
Have  I  done  worship  to  thee,  as  an  angel 
Bearing  my  helpless  babe  upon  thy  wings  ! 

OLD  BATHORY. 

O  he  was  born  to  honor !     Gallant  deeds 
Arid  perilous  hath  he  wrought  since  yester-eve. 
Now  from  Temeswar  (for  to  him  was  trusted 
A  life,  save  thine,  the  dearest)  he  hastens  hither — 

ZAPOLYA. 
Lady  Saroita  mean'st  thou  ? 

OLD  BATHORY. 

She  is  safe. 

The  royal  brute  hath  overleapt  his  prey, 
And  when  he  turned,  a  sworded  Virtue  faced  him. 
My  own  brave  boy — O  pardon,  noble  lady  ! 

Your  son 

ZAPOLYA. 
Hark  !     Is  it  he  ? 

OLD  BATHORY. 

I  hear  a  voice 

Too  hoarse  for  Bethlen's  !     'Twas  his  scheme  and  hope, 
Long  ere  the  hunters  could  approach  the  forest 
To  have  led  you  hence. — Retire. 

ZAPOLYA. 

O  life  of  terrors  I 

OLD  BATHORY. 

In  the  cave's  mouth  we  have  such  'vantage  ground 
That  even  this  old  arm — 

\Exeunt  Zapolya  and  Bathory  into  the  Cave, 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


Enter  LASKA  and  PESTALUTZ. 

LASKA. 

Not  a  step  further  J 

PESTALUTZ. 
Dastard  !  was  this  your  promise  to  the  king  ? 

LASKA. 

I  have  fulfilled  his  orders.     Have  walked  with  you 
As  with  a  friend  :  have  pointed  out  Lord  Casimir  : 
And  now  I  leave  you  to  take  care  of  him. 
For  the  king's  purposes  are  doubtless  friendly. 

PESTALUTZ.  (affecting  to  start.) 
Be  on  your  guard,  man  I 

LASKA.  (in  affright.) 
Ha  !  what  now  ? 

PESTALUTZ. 

Behind  you  ! 

'Twas  one  of  Satan's  imps,  that  grinned  and  threatened  you 
For  your  most  impudent  hope  to  cheat  his  master  I 

LASKA. 
Pshaw  J    What,  you  think  'tis  fear  that  makes  me  leave  you  ? 

PESTALUTZ. 

Is't  not  enough  to  play  the  knave  to  others, 
But  thou  must  lie  to  thine  own  heart  ? 

LASKA.  (pompously.) 

Friend  !  Laska  will  be  found  at  his  own  post, 
Watching  elsewhere  for  the  king's  interest. 
There's  a  rank  plot  that  Laska  must  hunt  down, 
'Twixt  Bethlen  and  Glycine  ! 

PESTALUTZ.  (with  a  sneer.) 

What  !  the  girl 
Whom  Laska  saw  the  war-  wolf  tear  in  pieces  ? 

LASKA.  (throwing  down  a  bow  and  arrows) 

Well  !     There's  my  arms  !     Hark  !  should  your  javelin  fail  you, 
These  points  are  tipt  with  venom. 

[Starts  and  sees  Glycine  without. 


ZAPOL  YA.  299 


By  Heaven  1  Glycine ! 
Now  as  you  love  the  king,  help  me  to  seize  her  1 

[They  runout  after  Glycine,  and  she  shrieks  without:  then 
enter  B ATHORY  from  the  cavern. 

OLD  BATHORT. 

Rest,  lady,  rest !     I  feel  in  every  sinew 

A.  young  man's  strength  returning  1     Which  way  went  they  ? 
The  shriek  came  thence. 

[Clash  of  swords,  and  Bethleri*  s  voice  heard  from  behind  the 
scenes  I  GLYCINE  enters  alarmed  ;  then,  as  seeing  Laska's 
bow  and  arrows, 

GLYCINE 

Ha!  weapons  here?    Then,  Bethlen,  thy  Glycine 
Wi>l  die  with  thee  or  save  thee  ! 

[She  seizes  them  and  rushes  out.    Bathory  following  her. 

Lively  and  irregular  music,  and  Peasants  with  hunting 

spears  cross  the  stage,  singing  chorally. 


CHORAL  SONG 

Up,  up !  ye  dames,  ye  lasses  gay 

To  the  meadows  trip  away. 

'Tis  you  must  tend  the  flocks  this  morn, 

And  scare  the  small  birds  from  the  corn. 

Not  a  soul  at  home  may  stay  ; 

For  the  shepherds  must  go 

With  lance  and  bow 
To  hunt  the  wolf  in  the  woods  to-day. 

Leave  the  hearth  and  leave  the  house 
To  the  cricket  and  the  mouse  : 
Find  grannam  out  a  sunny  seat, 
With  babe  and  lambkin  at  her  feet. 
>Jot  a  soul  at  home  may  stay  : 

For  the  shepherds  must  go 

With  lance  and  bow 
To  hunt  the  wolf  in  the  woods  to-day. 

Re-enter,  as  the  Huntsmen  pass  off,  BATHORY,  BETHLEN ;  and 

GLYCINE. 

GLYCINE.     (leaning  on  Bethlen.) 
And  now  once  more  a  woman — 


300  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

BETHLEN. 

Was  it  then 

That  timid  eye,  was  it  those  maiden  hands, 
That  sped  the  shaft,  which  saved  me  and  avenged  me  ? 

OLD  EATHORY.  (to  Bethlen,  exultingly.) 
'Twas  as  a  vision  blazoned  on  a  cloud 
By  lightning,  shaped  into  a  passionate  scheme 
Of  life  and  death  !     I  saw  the  traitor,  Laska, 
Stoop  and  snatch  up  the  javelin  of  his  comrade  ; 
The  point  was  at  your  back,  when  her  shaft  reached  him  ; 
The  coward  turned,  and  at  the  self-same  instant 
The  braver  villain  fell  beneath  your  sword. 

Enter  ZAPOLYA. 

ZAPOLYA. 
Bethlen  I  my  child  !  and  safe  too  ! 

BETHLEN. 

Mother !  Queen ! 

Royal  Zapolya  !  name  me  Andreas  ! 
Nor  blame  thy  son,  if  being  a  king,  he  yet 
Hath  made  his  own  arm  minister  of  his  justice. 
So  do  the  Gods  who  launch  the  thunder-bolt ! 

ZAPOLYA. 

O  Raab  Kiuprili !  Friend  !  Protector  !  Guide  ! 
In  vain  we  trenched  the  altar  round  with  waters, 
A  flash  from  Heaven  hath  touched  the  hidden  incense — 

BETHLEN.  (hastily.) 

And  that  majestic  form  that  stood  beside  thee 
Was  Raab  Kiuprili ! 

ZAPOLYA. 

It  was  Raab  Kiuprili ; 
As  sure  as  thou  art  Andreas,  and  the  king. 

OLD  BATHORY. 
Hail,  Andreas  !  hail,  my  king !  [triumphantly. 

ANDREAS. 

Stop,  thou  revered  one, 
Lest  we  offend  the  jealous  destinies 
By  shouts  ere  victory.     Deem  it  then  thy  duty 
To  pay  this  homage,  when  'tis  mine  to  claim  it. 

GLYCINE. 
Accept  thine  hand-maid's  service  I  [kneeling. 


ZAPOL  YA.  301 


ZAPOLYA. 

Raise  her,  son ! 

0  raise  her  to  thine  arms  !  she  saved  thy  life, 

And,  through  her  love  for  thee,  she  saved  thy  mother's  ! 

Hereafter  thou  shalt  know,  that  this  dear  maid 

Hath  other  and  hereditary  claims 

Upon  thy  heart,  and  with  Heaven-guarded  instinct 

But  carried  on  the  work  her  sire  began ! 

ANDREAS. 

Dear  maid  !  more  dear  thou  canst  not  be  !  the  rest 
Shall  make  my  love  religion.     Haste  we  hence : 
For  as  I  reached  the  skirts  of  this  high  forest, 

1  heard  the  noise  and  uproar  of  the  chase, 
Doubling  its  echoes  from  the  mountain  foot. 

GLYCINE. 

Hark  !  Sure  the  hunt  approaches. 

[Horn  without,  and  afterwards  distant  thunder. 

ZAPOLYA. 

O  Kiuprili  I 
OLD  BATHORY. 

The  demon-hunters  of  the  middle  air 
Are  in  full  cry,  and  scare  with  arrow  fire 
The  guilty  !     Hark  !  now  here,  now  there,  a  horn 
Swells  singly  with  irregular  blast !  the  tempest 
Has  scattered  them ! 

[Horns  heard  as  from  different  places  at  a  distance* 

ZAPOLYA. 
O  Heavens  !  where  stays  Kiuprili  ? 

OLD  BATHORY. 
The  wood  will  be  surrounded  !  leave  me  here. 

ANDREAS 

My  mother  !  let  me  see  thee  once  in  safety, 
I  too  will  hasten  back,  with  lightning's  speed 
To  seek  the  hero ! 

OLD  BATHORY. 

Haste  !  my  life  upon  it 
I'll  guide  him  safe. 

ANDREAS,  (thunder  again.') 
Ha !  what  a  crash  was  there  ! 


302  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

Heaven  seems  to  claim  a  mightier  criminal 

[pointing  without  to  the  body  of  Pestalutz. 
Than  yon  vile  subaltern. 

ZAPOLYA. 

Your  behest,  High  Powers, 
Lo,  I  obey  !  to  the  appointed  spirit, 
That  hath  so  long  kept  watch  round  this  drear  cavern, 
In  fervent  faith,  Kiuprili,  1  entrust  thee  ! 

[Exeunt  Zapolya,  Andreas,  and  Glycine.     Andreas  having 
in  haste  dropt  his  sivord.     Manet  Bathory. 

OLD  BATHORY. 
Yon  bleeding  corse  (pointing  to  Pestalutz' s  body)  may  work  us 

mischief  still : 

Once  seen,  'twill  rouse  alarm  and  crowd  the  hunt 
From  all  parts  towards  this  spot.     Stript  of  its  armor, 
I'll  drag  it  hither. 

[Exit  Bathory.  After  awhile  several  Hunters  cross  the  stage 
as  scattered.  Some  time  after,  enter  KIUPRILI  in  his  dis- 
guiset  fainting  with  fatigue,  and  as  pursued. 

RAAB  KIUPRILI.  (throwing  off  his  disguise.) 

Since  Heaven  alone  can  save  me,  Heaven  alone 

Shall  be  my  trust.       [Then  speaking  as  to  Zapolya  in  the  Cavern. 

Haste  !  haste  !  Zapolya,  flee  ! 
[He  enters  the  Cavern,  and  then  returns  in  alarm. 
Gone  !   Seized  perhaps  ?   Oh  no,  let  me  not  perish 
Despairing  of  Heaven's  justice  !     Faint,  disarmed, 
Each  sinew  powerless,  senseless  rock,  sustain  me! 
Thou  art  parcel  of  my  native  land.        [Then  observing  the  sword- 

A  sword  ! 

Ha  1  and  my  sword  !   Zapolya  hath  escaped, 
The  murderers  are  baffled,  and  there  lives 
An  Andreas  to  avenge  Kiuprili's  fall — 
There  was  a  time,  when  this  dear  sword  did  flash 
As  dreadful  as  the  storm-fire  from  mine  arms — 
I  can  scarce  raise  it  now — yet  come,  fell  tyrant ! 
And  bring  with  thee  my  shame  and  bitter  anguish, 
To  end  his  work  and  thine  !     Kiuprili  now 
Can  take  the  death-blow  as  a  soldier  should. 

Re-enter  BATHORY,  with  the  dead  body  of  Pestalutz^ 

OLD  BATHORY. 

Poor  tool  and  victim  of  another's  guilt ! 
Thou  follow'st  heavily  :  a  reluctant  weight ! 


ZAPOL  YA.  303 


Good  truth,  it  is  an  undeserved  honor 

That  in  Zapolya  and  Kiuprili's  cave 

A  wretch  like  thee  should  find  a  burial-place. 

[Then  observing  Kiuprili 
'Tis  he  ! — In  Andreas'  and  Zapolya's  name 
Follow  me,  reverend  form  !     Thou  need'st  not  speak, 
For  thou  canst  be  no  other  than  Kiuprili ! 

KIUPRILI. 
And  are  they  safe  ?  [Noise  without. 

OLD  BATHORY. 
Conceal  yourself,  my  lord  ! 
I  will  mislead  them  ! 

KIUPRILI. 
Is  Zapolya  safe  ? 

OLD  BATHORY. 
I  doubt  it  not ;  but  haste,  haste,  1  conjure  you  ! 

[As  he  retires,  in  rushes  Casimir» 

CASIMIR.  (entering.) 

Monster  I 
Thou  shalt  not  now  escape  me  ! 

OLD  BATH.ORY. 

Stop,  lord  Casimir ! 
It  is  no  monster. 

CASIMIR. 

Art  thou  too  a  traitor  ? 

Is  this  the  place  where  Emerick's  murderers  lurk? 
Say  where  is  he  that,  tricked  in  this  disguise, 
First  lured  me  on,  then  scared  my  dastard  followers  ? 
Thou  must  have  seen  him.     Say  where  is  th'  assassin? 

OLD  BATHORY.  (pointing  to  the  body  of  Pestalutz.) 
There  lies  the  assassin  !  slain  by  that  same  sword 
That  was  descending  on  his  curst  employer, 
When  entering  thou  beheld' st  Sarolta  rescued ! 

CASIMIR. 
Strange  providence  !  what  then  was  he  who  fled  me  ? 

[Bathory  points  to  the  Cavern,  whence  Kiuprili  advance*. 
Thy  looks  speak  fearful  things  !     Whither,  old  man  I 
Would  thy  hand  point  me  ? 

OLD  BATHORY. 

Casimir,  to  thy  father. 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


CASIMTR.  (discovering  Kiuprili.) 
The  curse  !  the  curse  !     Open  and  swallow  me, 
Unsteady  earth  !     Fall,  dizzy  rocks  !  and  hide  ine  ! 

OLD  BATHORY.  (to  Kiuprili.) 
Speak,  speak,  my  lord  ! 

KIUPRILI.  (holds  out  the  sword  to  Bathory.) 
Bid  him  fulfil  his  work ! 

CASIMIR. 

Thou  art  Heaven's  immediate  minister,  dread  spirit  I 
O  for  sweet  mercy,  take  some  other  form, 
And  save  me  from  perdition  and  despair  ! 

OLD  BATHORY. 
He  lives ! 

CASIMIR. 
Lives  !     A  father's  curse  can  never  die  ! 

KIUPRILI.  (in  a  tone  of  pity.) 
O  Casimir !   Casimir  !  * 

OLD  BATHORY. 
Look  !  he  doth  forgive  you  ! 
Hark !  'tis  the  tyrant's  voice.  [Emerick's  voice  without. 

CASIMIR. 

I  kneel,  I  kneel ! 

Retract  thy  curse  !     O,  by  my  mother's  ashes, 
Have  pity  on  thy  self-abhorring  child  ! 
If  not  for  me,  yet  for  my  innocent  wife, 
Yet  for  my  country's  sake,  give  my  arm  strength, 
Permitting  me  again  to  call  thee  father ! 

KIUPRILI. 

Son,  I  forgive  thee  J  Take  thy  father's  sword ; 
When  thou  shalt  lift  it  in  thy  country's  cause, 
In  that  same  instant  doth  thy  father  bless  thee ! 

[Kiuprili  and  Casimir  embrace  ;  they  all  retire  to  the  Cavern 
supporting  Kiuprili.  Casimir  as  by  accident  drops  his 
robe,  and  Bathory  throws  it  over  the  body  of  Pestalutz. 

EMKRICK.  (entering.) 

Fools !   Cowards  !  follow — or  by  Hell  I'll  make  you 
Find  reason  to  fear  Einerick,  more  than  all 
The  mummer-fiends  that  ever  masqueraded 


ZAPOL  YA.  305 


As  gods  or  wood-nymphs  ! — 

[Then  sees  the  body  of  Pestalutz,  covered  by  Casimir' s  cloak. 

Ha  !  'tis  done  then ! 

Our  necessary  villain  hath  proved  faithful, 
And  there  lies  Casimir,  and  our  last  fears ! 
Well!— Ay,  well!— 

And  is  it  not  well  ?     For  though  grafted  on  us, 
And  filled  too  with  our  sap,  the  deadly  power 
Of  the  parent  poison-tree  lurked  in  its  fibres  : 
There  was  too  much  of  Raab  Kiuprili  in  him : 
The  old  enemy  looked  at  me  in  his  face, 
E'en  when  his  words  did  flatter  me  with  duty. 

[As  Emerick  moves  towards  the  body,  enter  from  the  Cavern 
CASIMIR  and  BATHORY. 

OLD  BATHORY.  (pointing  to  where  the  noise  is,  and  aside  to 

Casimir.) 
This  way  they  come  ! 

CASIMIR.  (aside  to  Bathory.) 
Hold  them  in  check  awhile, 
The  path  is  narrow  !     Rudolph  will  assist  thee. 

EMERICK.  (aside,  not  perceiving  Casimir  and  Sathory,  and  look- 
ing at  the  dead  body.) 
And  ere  I  ring  the  alarum  of  my  sorrow, 
I'll  scan  that  face  once  more,  arid  murmur    Here 
Lies  Casimir,  the  last  of  the  Kiuprilis  ! 

[Uncovers  the  face,  and  starts. 
Hell!  'tis  Pestalutz. 

CASIMIR.  (coming  forward.) 

Yes,  thou  ingrate  Emerick  I 
'Tis  Pestalutz  !  'tis  thy  trusty  murderer  ! 
To  quell  thee  more,  see  Raab  Kiuprili's  sword  ! 

EMERICK. 

Curses  on  it,  and  thee  !     Think'st  thou  that  petty  omen 
Bare  whisper  fear  to  Emerick's  destiny  ? 
Ho !    Treason  !   Treason  ! 

CASIMIR. 
Then  have  at  thee,  tyrant ! 

[  They  fight.     Emerick  falls. 

EMERICK. 
Betrayed  and  baffled 

By  mine  own  tool  1 Oh  I  [dies, 

20 


306  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

CASIMIR.  (triumphantly.) 

Hear,  hear,  my  father  ! 

Thou  should'st  have  witnessed  thine  own  deed.     O  father, 
Wake  from  that  envious  swoon  !     The  tyrant's  fallen  ! 
Thy  sword  hath  conquered  !     As  I  lifted  it 
Thy  blessing  did  indeed  descend  upon  me  ; 
Dislodging  the  dread  curse.     It  flew  forth  from  me 
And  lighted  on  the  tyrant ! 

Enter  RUDOLPH,  BATHORY,  and  Attendants. 
RUDOLPH,  and  BATHORY.  (entering.) 

Friends !  friends  to  Casimir  ! 

CASIMIR. 
Rejoice,  Illyrians  !  the  usurper's  fallen. 

RUDOLPH. 
So  perish  tyrants !  so  end  usurpation  ! 

CASIMIR. 

Bear  hence  the  body,  and  move  slowly  on ! 
One  moment — 

Devoted  to  a  joy,  that  bears  no  witness, 
I  follow  you,  and  we  will  greet  our  countrymen 
With  the  two  best  and  fullest  gifts  of  heaven — 
A  tyrant  fallen,  a  patriot  chief  restored  ! 

[Exeunt  Casimir  into  the  Cavern.  The  rest  on  the  opposite 
side.  Scene  changes  to  a  splendid  Chamber  in  Casimir'* 
Castle.  CONFEDERATES  discovered. 

FIRST  CONFEDERATE. 

It  cannot  but  succeed,  friends.    From  this  palace 
E'en  to  the  wood,  our  messengers  are  posted 
With  such  short  interspace,  that  fast  as  sound 
Can  travel  to  us,  we  shall  learn  the  event ! 

Enter  another  CONFEDERATE. 
What  tidings  from  Temeswar  ? 

SECOND  CONFEDERATE. 

With  one  voice 

Th'  assembled  chieftains  have  deposed  the  tyrant ; 
He  is  proclaimed  the  public  enemy, 
And  the  protection  of  the  law  withdrawn. 

FIRST  CONFEDERATE. 

Just  doom  for  him,  who  governs  without  law  I 
Is  it  known  on  whom  the  BOV' reign ty  will  fall  ? 


ZAPOL  YA.  307 


SECOND  CONFEDERATE. 
Nothing  is  yet  decided  :  but  report 
Points  to  Lord  Casimir.     The  graceful  memory 
Of  his  renowned  father 

Enter  SAROLTA. 

Hail  to  Sarolta ! 
SAROLTA. 

Confederate  friends  !     I  bring  to  you  a  joy 
Worthy  your  noble  cause  !   Kiuprili  lives, 
And  from  his  obscure  exile  hath  returned 
To  bless  our  country.     More  and  greater  tidings 
Might  I  disclose  \  but  that  a  woman's  voice 
Would  mar  the  wondrous  tale.     Wait  we  for  him, 
The  partner  of  the  glory— Raab  Kiuprili ; 
For  he  alone  is  worthy  to  announce  it. 

[/Shouts  of  '  Kiuprili,  Kiuprili,'  and  'The  Tyrant's  fallen,' 
without.  Then  enter  KIUPRILI,  CASIMIR,  RUDOLPH, 
BATHORY,  and  Attendants,  after  the  clamor  has  subsided. 

PAAB  KIUPRILI. 

Spare  yet  your  joy,  my  friends  !     A  higher  waits  you: 
Behold,  your  Queen ! 

Enter  from  opposite  side,  ZAPOLYA  and  AIXDREAS,  royally  attired, 
with  GLYCINE. 

CONFEDERATES. 
Comes  she  from  heaven  to  bless  us  ? 

OTHER  CONFEDERATES. 
It  is !  it  is  ! 

ZAPOLYA. 

Heaven's  work  of  grace  is  full ! 
Kiuprili,  thou  art  safe  ! 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 
Royal  Zapolya ! 

To  the  heavenly  powers  pay  we  our  duty  first ; 
Who  not  alone  preserved  thee,  but  for  thee 
And  for  our  country,  the  one  precious  branch 
Of  Andreas'  royal  house.     O  countrymen, 
Behold  your  King  !     And  thank  our  country's  genius, 
That  the  same  means  which  have  preserved  our  sovereign, 
Have  likewise  reared  him  worthier  of  the  throne 
By  virtue  than  by  birth.     The  undoubted  proofs 
Pledged  by  his  royal  mother,  and  this  old  man 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


(Whose  name  henceforth  be  dear  to  all  Illyrians), 
We  haste  to  lay  before  the  assembled  council. 

ALL. 
Hail,  Andreas  !   Hail,  Illyria's  rightful  king  ! 

ANDREAS. 

Supported  thus,  O  friends  !  'twere  cowardice 
Unworthy  of  a  royal  birth,  to  shrink 
From  the  appointed  charge.     Yet,  while  we  wait 
The  awful  sanction  of  convened  Illyria, 
In  this  brief  while,  O  let  me  feel  myself 
The  child,  the  friend,  the  debtor  !  —  Heroic  mother  !  — 
But  what  can  breath  add  to  that  sacred  name  ? 
Kiuprili  !  gift  of  Providence,  to  teach  us 
That  loyalty  is  but  the  public  form 
Of  the  sublimest  friendship,  let  my  youth 
Climb  round  thee,  as  the  vine  around  its  elm  : 
Thou  my  support,  and  /  thy  faithful  fruitage. 
My  heart  is  full,  and  these  poor  words  express  not, 
They  are  but  an  art  to  check  its  overswelling. 
Bathory  !  shrink  not  from  my  filial  arms  ! 
Now,  and  from  henceforth,  thou  shalt  not  forbid  me 
To  call  thee  father  !     And  dare  I  forget 
The  powerful  intercession  of  thy  virtue, 
Lady  Sarolta  !     Still  acknowledge  me 
Thy  faithful  soldier  !  —  But  what  invocation 
Shall  my  full  soul  address  to  thee,  Glycine  : 
Thou  sword  that  leap'st  forth  from  a  bed  of  roses  : 
Thou  falcon-hearted  dove  ? 

ZAPOLYA. 

Hear  that  from  me,  son  I 
For  ere  she  lived,  her  father  saved  thy  life, 
Thine,  and  thy  fugitive  mother's  ! 

CASIMIR. 

Chef  Ragozzi  ! 

O  shame  upon  my  head  I    I  would  have  given  her 
To  a  base  slave  1 

ZAPOLYA. 

Heaven  overruled  thy  purpose, 
And  sent  an  Angel  (pointing  to  Sarolta)  to  thy  house  to  guard 

her  ; 
Thou  precious  bark  !  freighted  with  all  cmr  treasures  ! 

[to  Andreas. 


ZAPOLYA.  309 


The  sport  of  tempests,  and  yet  ne'er  the  victim, 
How  many  may  claim  salvage  in  thee  ! 

(pointing  to  Glycine.)    Take  her,  son  ! 
A  queen  that  brings  with  her  a  richer  dowry 
Than  orient  kings  can  give  ! 

^  SAROLTA. 

A  banquet  waits ! — 

On  this  auspicious  day,  for  some  few  hours 
I  claim  to  be  your  hostess.     Scenes  so  awful 
With  flashing  light,  force  wisdom  on  us  all ! 
E'en  women  at  the  distaff  hence  may  see, 
That  bad  men  may  rebel,  but  ne'er  be  free  ; 
May  whisper,  when  the  waves  of  faction  foam, 
None  love  their  country,  but  who  love  their  home » 
For  freedom  can  with  those  alone  abide, 
Who  wear  the  golden  chain,  with  honest  pride, 
Of  love  and  duty,  at  their  own  fire-side  : 
While  mad  ambition  ever  doth  caress 
Its  own  sure  fate,  in  its  own  restlessness  \ 


REMORSE. 
A  TRAGEDY. 

IN  FIVE   ACTS. 

DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 

MARQUIS  VALDEZ,  Father  to  the  two  brothers,  and  Donna  Teresa's  Guardian. 

DON  ALVAR,  the  eldest  son. 

DON  ORDONIO,  the  youngest  son. 

MoNVlRDBO,  a  Dominican  and  Inquisitor. 

ZULIMEZ,  the  faithful  attendant  on  Alvar. 

ISIDORE,  a  Moresco  Chieftain,  ostensibly  a  Christian. 

FAMILIARS  OF  THE  INQUISITION. 

NAOMI. 

MOORS,  SERVANTS,  &c. 

DONNA  TERESA,  an  Orphan  Heir«ss>. 

ALHADRA,  Wife  to  Isidore. 

Time.— The  reign  of  Philip  IT.,  just  at  the  close  of  the  civil  wars  against  the  Moore, 
and  during  the  heat  of  the  persecution  which  raged  against  them,  shortly  after  the 
edict  which  forbade  the  wearing  of  Moresco  apparel  under  pain  of  death. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  I. 

The  Sea-shore  on  the  Coast  of  Granada. 

DON  ALVAR,  wrapt  in  a  Boat  cloak,  and  ZULIMEZ  (a  Moresco),  both 
as  just  landed. 

ZULIMEZ. 
No  sound,  no  face  of  joy  to  welcome  us  ! 

ALVAR. 

My  faithful  Zulimez,  for  one  brief  moment 
Let  me  forget  my  anguish  and  their  crimes. 
If  aught  on  earth  demand  an  unmixed  feeling, 
'Tis  surely  this— after  long  years  of  exile, 
To  step  forth  on  firm  land,  and  gazing  round  us, 
To  hail  at  once  our  country,  and  our  birth-place. 
Hail,  Spain  !  Granada,  hail !  once  more  I  press 
Thy  sands  with  filial  awe,  land  of  my  fathers  I 

(310) 


REMORSE. 


ZULIMEZ. 

Then  claim  your  rights  in  it !     O,  revered  Don  Alvar, 
Yet,  yet  give  up  your  all  too  gentle  purpose. 
It  is  too  hazardous  !  reveal  yourself, 
And  let  the  guilty  meet  the  doom  of  guilt  I 

ALVAR. 

Remember,  Zulimez  !  I  am  his  brother, 
Injured  indeed  !  O  deeply  injured  !  yet 
Ordonio's  brother. 

ZULIMEZ. 

Nobly-minded  Alvar  ! 
This  sure  but  gives  his  guilt  a  blacker  dye. 

ALVAR. 

The  mere  behoves  it,  I  should  rouse  within  him 
REMORSE  !  that  I  should  save  him  from  himself. 

ZULIMEZ. 

REMORSE  is  as  the  heart  in  which  it  grows  ; 
If  that  be  gentle,  it  drops  balmy  dews 
Of  true  repentance  ;  but  if  proud  and  gloomy, 
It  is  a  poison-tree,  that  pierced  to  the  inmost 
Weeps  only  tears  of  poison  ! 

ALVAR. 

And  of  a  brother, 

Pare  I  hold  this,  unproved  ?  nor  make  one  effort 
To  save  him  ? — Hear  me,  friend  !     I  have  yet  to  tell  thee, 
That  this  same  life,  which  he  conspired  to  take, 
Himself  once  rescued  from  the  angry  flood, 
And  at  the  imminent  hazard  of  his  own. 
Add  too  my  oath — 

ZULIMEZ. 

You  have  thrice  told  already 
The  years  of  absence  and  of  secrecy, 
To  which  a  forced  oath  bound  you  ;  if  in  truth 
A  suborned  murderer  have  the  power  to  dictate 
A  binding  oath — 

ALVAR. 

My  long  captivity 

Left  me  no  choice  :  the  very  Wish  too  languished 
With  the  fond  Hope  that  nursed  it ;  the  sick  babe 
Drooped  at  the  bosom  of  its  famished  mother. 


3 I 2  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

But  (more  than  all)  Teresa's  perfidy  ; 
The  assassin's  strong  assurance,  when  no  interest, 
No  motive  could  have  tempted  him  to  falsehood  ; 
In  the  first  pangs  of  his  awakened  conscience, 
When  with  abhorrence  of  his  own  black  purpose 
The  murderous  weapon,  pointed  at  my  breast, 
Fell  from  his  palsied  hand — 

ZULIMEZ. 

Heavy  presumption ! 

ALVAR. 

It  weighed  not  with  me — Hark  !  I  will  tell  thee  all : 
As  we  passed  by,  I  bade  thee  mark  the  base 
Of  yonder  cliff— 

ZULIMEZ. 

That  rocky  seat  you  mean, 
Shaped  by  the  billows  ?— 

ALVAR. 

There  Teresa  met  me 
The  morning  of  the  day  of  my  departure. 
We  were  alone  :  the  purple  hue  of  dawn, 
Fell  from  the  kindling  east  aslant  upon  us, 
And  blending  with  the  blushes  on  her  cheek 
Suffused  the  tear-drops  there  with  rosy  light. 
There  seemed  a  glory  round  us,  and  Teresa 
The  angel  of  the  vision  !  [then  with  agitation. 

Hadst  thou  seen 

How  in  each  motion  her  most  innocent  soul 
Beamed  forth  and  brightened,  thou  thyself  would'st  tell  me, 
Guilt  is  a  thing  impossible  in  her ! 
She  must  be  innocent ! 

ZULIMEZ.  (with  a  sigh.) 
Proceed,  my  Lord  ! 

ALVAR. 

A  portrait  which  she  had  procured  by  stealth 
(For  even  then  it  seems  her  heart  foreboded 
Or  knew  Ordonio's  moody  rivalry), 
A  portrait  of  herself  with  thrilling  hand 
She  tied  around  my  neck   conjuring  me, 
With  earnest  prayers,  that  1  would  keep  it  sacred 
To  my  own  knowledge  :  nor  did  she  desist, 


REMORSE.  313 


Till  she  had  won  a  solemn  promise  from  me. 
That  (save  my  own)  no  eye  should  e'er  behold  it 
Till  my  return.     Yet  this  the  assassin  knew, 
Knew  that  which  none  but  she  could  have  disclosed, 

ZULIMEZ. 
A  damning  proof ! 

ALVAR. 

My  own  life  wearied  me  ! 
And  but  for  the  imperative  Voice  within 
With  mine  own  hand  I  had  thrown  off  the  burthen. 
That  Voice,  which  quelled  me,  calmed  me  :  and  I  sought 
The  Belgic  states :  there  joined  the  better  cause  ; 
And  there  too  fought  as  one  that  courted  death  ! 
Wounded,  I  fell  among  the  dead  and  dying, 
In  death-like  trance  :  a  long  imprisonment  followed. 
The  fulness  of  my  anguish  by  degrees 
Waned  to  a  meditative  melancholy  ; 
And  still  the  more  I  mused,  my  soul  became 
More  doubtful,  more  perplexed  ;  and  still  Teresa, 
Night  after  night,  she  visited  my  sleep, 
Now  as  a  saintly  sufferer,  wan  and  tearful, 
Now  as  a  saint  in  glory  beckoning  to  me  I 
Yes,  still  as  in  contempt  of  proof  and  reason, 
I  cherish  the  fond  faith  that  she  is  guiltless ! 
Hear  then  my  fixed  resolve  :  I'll  linger  here 
In  the  disguise  of  a  Moresco  chieftain. — 
The  Moorish  robes?— 

ZULIMEZ. 

All,  all  are  in  the  sea-care, 
Some  furlong  hence.     I  bade  our  mariners 
Secrete  the  boat  there. 

ALVAR. 

Above  all,  the  picture 
Of  the  assassination— 

ZULIMEZ. 
Be  assured 
That  it  remains  uninjured. 

ALVAR. 

Thus  disguised, 

I  will  first  seek  to  meet  Ordonio's — wife  f 
If  possible,  alone  too.     This  was  her  wonted  walk, 
And  this  the  hour  ;  her  words,  her  very  looks, 
Will  acquit  her  or  convict. 


3 1 4  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


ZULIMEZ. 
Will  they  not  know  you  ? 

ALVAR. 

With  your  aid,  friend,  I  shall  unfearingly 
Trust  the  disguise  ;  and  as  to  my  complexion, 
My  long  imprisonment,  the  scanty  food, 
This  scar,  and  toil  beneath  a  burning  sun, 
Have  done  already  half  the  business  for  us. 
Add  too  iny  youth,  when  last  we  saw  each  other. 
Manhood  has  swoln  my  chest,  and  taught  my  voice 
A  hoarser  note — Besides,  they  think  me  dead  : 
And  what  the  mind  believes  impossible, 
The  bodily  sense  is  slow  to  recognize. 

ZULIMEZ. 

'Tis  yours,  sir,  to  command,  mine  to  obey. 
Now  to  the  cave  beneath  the  vaulted  rock, 
Where  having  shaped  you  to  a  Moorish  chieftain, 
I'll  seek  our  mariners  ;  and  in  the  dusk 
Transport  whate'er  we  need  to  the  small  dell 
In  the  Alpuxarras — there  where  Zagri  lived. 

ALVAR. 

I  know  it  well :  it  is  the  obscurest  haunt 
Of  all  the  mountains —  [Both  stand  listening. 

Voices  at  a  distance  ! 
Let  us  away  I  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. 
Enter  TERESA  and  VALDEZ. 

TERESA. 

I  hold  Ordonio  dear ;  he  is  your  son, 
And  Alvar's  brother. 

VALDEZ. 

Love  him  for  himself, 
Nor  make  the  living  wretched  for  the  dead. 

TERESA. 

I  mourn  that  you  should  plead  in  vain.  Lord  Valdez, 
But  Heaven  hath  heard  my  vow,  and  I  remain 
Faithful  to  Alvar,  be  he  dead  or  living. 

VALDEZ. 

Heaven  knows  with  what  delight  I  saw  your  loves, 
And  could  my  heart's  blood  give  him  back  to  thee 


REMORSE.  315 


I  would  die  smiling.    IBut  these  are  idle  thoughts! 

Thy  dying  father  comes  upon  my  soul 

With  that  same  look,  with  which  he  gave  thee  to  me  ; 

1  held  thee  in  my  arms  a  powerless  babe, 

While  thy  poor  mother  with  a  mute  entreaty 

Fixed  her  faint  eyes  on  mine.     Ah  not  for  this, 

That  I  should  let  thee  feed  thy  soul  with  gloom, 

And  with  slow  anguish  wear  away  thy  life, 

The  victim  of  a  useless  constancy. 

I  must  not  see  thee  wretched. 

TERESA. 

There  are  woes 

111  bartered  for  the  garishness  of  joy  ! 
If  it  be  wretched  with  an  untired  eye 
To  watch  those  skyey  tints,  and  this  green  ocean  ; 
Or  in  the  sultry  hour  beneath  some  rock, 
My  hair  dishevelled  by  the  pleasant  sea  breeze, 
To  shape  sweet  visions,  and  live  o'er  again 
All  past  hours  of  delight !  if  it  be  wretched 
To  watch  some  bark,  and  fancy  Alvar  there, 
To  go  through  each  minutest  circumstance 
Of  the  blest  meeting,  and  to  frame  adventures 
Most  terrible  and  strange,  and  hear  him  tell  them  ; 
*  (As  once  I  knew  a  crazy  Moorish  maid, 
Who  drest  her  in  her  buried  lover's  clothes, 
And  o'er  the  smooth  spring  in  the  mountain-cleft 
Hung  with  her  lute,  and  played  the  self-same  tune 
He  used  to  play,  and  listened  to  the  shadow 
Herself  had  made) — if  this  be  wretchedness, 
And  if  indeed  it  be  a  wretched  thing 
To  trick  out  mine  own  death-bed,  arid  imagine 
That  I  had  died,  died  just  ere  his  return  ! 
Then  see  him  listening  to  my  constancy, 
Or  hover  round,  as  he  at  midnight  oft 
Sits  on  my  grave  and  gazes  at  the  moon ; 
Or  haply  in  some  more  fantastic  mood, 
To  be  in  Paradise,  and  with  choice  flowers 
Build  up  a  bower  where  he  and  I  might  dwell, 
And  there  to  wait  his  coming  !     O  my  sire  ! 
My  Alvar's  sire !  if  this  be  wretchedness 
That  eats  away  the  life,  what  were  it,  think  you, 
If  in  a  most  assured  reality 

*  [Here  Valdez  bends  back,  and  smiles  at  her  wildness,  which  Teresa  noticing, 
checks  her  enthusiasm,  and  in  a  soothing  half-playful  tone  and  manner  apologizes  for 
her  fancy,  by  the  little  tale  in  the  parenthesis.] 


3 1 6  COLERID  GE'S  POEMS. 


He  should  return,  and  see  a  brother's  infant 

Smile  at  him  from  my  arms  ? 

Oh  what  a  thought !  [Clasping  Jier  forehead, 

VALDEZ. 

A  thought  ?  even  so  !  mere  thought !  an  empty  thought. 
The  very  week  he  promised  his  return — 

TERESA,  {abruptly.) 
Was  it  not  then  a  busy  joy?  to  see  him, 
After  those  three  years'  travels  !  we  had  no  fears — 
The  frequent  tidings,  the  ne'er  failing  letter, 
Almost  endeared  his  absence !     Yet  the  gladness, 
The  tumult  of  our  joy  !     What  then  if  now 

VALDEZ. 

0  power  of  youth  to  feed  on  pleasant  thoughts, 
Spite  of  conviction  !     I  am  old  and  heartless ! 
Yes,  I  am  old — I  have  no  pleasant  fancies — 
Hectic  and  unrefreshed  with  rest — 

TERESA,  (with  great  tenderness.) 

My  father ! 
VALDEZ. 
The  sober  truth  is  all  too  much  for  me  ! 

1  see  no  sail  which  brings  not  to  my  mind 

The  home-bound  bark  in  which  my  son  was  captured 
By  the  Algerine — to  perish  with  his  captors  ! 

TERESA. 
Oh  no  !  he  did  not ! 

VALDEZ. 

Captured  in  sight  of  land  ! 

From  yon  hill  point,  nay,  from  our  castle  watch-tower 
We  might  have  seen 

TERESA. 

His  capture,  not  his  death. 

VALDEZ. 

Alas !  how  aptly  thou  forget'st  a  tale 
Thou  ne'er  didst  wish  to  learn  !  my  brave  Ordonio 
Saw  both  the  pirate  and  his  prize  go  down, 
In  the  same  storm  that  baffled  his  own  valor, 
And  thus  twice  snatched  a  brother  from  his  hopes  : 
Gallant  Ordonio !  (pauses,  then  tenderly)  O  beloved  Teresa, 
Would'st  thou  best  prove  thy  faith  to  generous  Alvar, 
Arid  most  delight  his  spirit,  go,  make  thou 


REMORSE.  3  i  7 


His  brother  happy,  make  his  aged  father 
Sink  to  the  grave  in  joy. 

TERESA. 
For  mercy's  sake 

Press  me  no  more  !     I  have  no  power  to  love  him. 
His  proud  forbidding  eye,  and  his  dark  brow, 
Chill  me  like  dew  damps  of  the  unwholesome  night : 
My  love,  a  timorous  and  tender  flower, 
Closes  beneath  his  touch. 

VALDEZ. 

You  wrong  him,  maiden  ! 

You  wrong  him,  by  my  soul !     Nor  was  it  well 
To  character  by  such  unkindly  phrases 
The  stir  and  workings  of  that  love  for  you 
Which  he  has  toiled  to  smother.     'Twas  not  well, 
Nor  is  it  grateful  in  you  to  forget 
His  wounds  and  perilous  voyages,  and  how 
With  an  heroic  fearlessness  of  danger 
He  roamed  the  coast  of  Afric  for  your  Alvar. 
It  is  not  well — You  have  moved  me  even  to  tears. 

TERESA. 

Oh  pardon  me,  Lord  Valdez  !  pardon  me  ! 
It  was  a  foolish  and  ungrateful  speech, 
A  most  ungrateful  speech  !     But  I  am  hurried 
Beyond  myself,  if  I  but  hear  of  one 
Who  aims  to  rival  Alvar.     Were  we  not 
Born  in  one  day,  like  twins  of  the  same  parent  ? 
Nursed  in  one  cradle  ?    Pardon  me,  my  father  ! 
A  six  years'  absence  is  a  heavy  thing, 
Yet  still  the  hope  survives 

VALDEZ.  (looking  forward.} 

Hush  !  'tis  Monviedro. 

TERESA. 
The  Inquisitor  !  on  what  new  scent  of  blood  ? 

Enter  MONVIEDRO  with  ALHADRA. 
MONVIEDRO.    (having  first  made  his  obeisance  to  VALDEZ  and 

TERESA. 

Peace  and  the  truth  be  with  you  !     Good  my  lord, 
My  present  need  is  with  your  son.  [Looking  forward. 

We  have  hit  the  time.    Here  conies  he  !    Yes,  'tis  he. 


3 1 »  COLERID GE 1S  POEMS. 

Enter  from  the  opposite  side  DON  ORDONIO. 
My  Lord  Ordonio,  this  Moresco  woman 
(Alhadra  is  her  name)  asks  audience  of  you. 

ORDONIO. 
Hail,  reverend  father  !  what  may  be  the  business  ? 

MONVIEDRO. 

My  lord,  on  strong  suspicion  of  relapse 
To  his  false  creed,  so  recently  abjured, 
The  secret  servants  of  the  Inquisition 
Have  seized  her  husband,  and  at  my  command 
To  the  supreme  tribunal  would  have  led  him, 
But  that  he  made  appeal  to  you,  my  lord, 
As  surety  for  his  soundness  in  the  faith. 
Though  lessened  by  experience  what  small  trust 
The  asseverations  of  these  Moors  deserve, 
Yet  still  the  deference  to  Ordonio's  name, 
Nor  less  the  wish  to  prove,  with  what  high  honor 
The  Holy  Church  regards  her  faithful  soldiers, 
Thus  far  prevailed  with  me  that 

ORDONIO. 

Reverend  father, 

I  am  much  beholden  to  your  high  opinion, 

Which  so  o'erprizes  my  light  services.  [Then  to  ALHADRA, 

I  would  that  I  could  serve  you  ;  but  in  truth 
Your  face  is  new  to  me. 

MONVIEDRO. 
My  mi  rid  foretold  me 

That  such  would  be  the  event.     In  truth,  Lord  Valdez, 
'Twas  little  probable,  that  Don  Ordonio,  . 

That  your  illustrious  son,  who  fought  so  bravely 
Some  four  years  since  to  quell  those  rebel  Moors, 
Should  prove  the  patron  of  this  infidel ! 
The  guarantee  of  a  Moresco's  faith  ! 
Now  I  return. 

ALHADRA. 

My  Lord,  my  husband's  name 

Is  Isidore.    (ORDONIO  starts.} — You  may  remember  it : 
Three  years  ago,  three  years  this  very  week, 
You  left  him  at  Almeria. 

MONVIEDRO. 
Palpably  false  I 


REMORS&.  3*9 


This  very  week,  three  years  ago,  my  lord 
(You  needs  must  recollect  it  by  your  wound), 
You  were  at  sea,  and  there  engaged  the  pirates, 
The  murderers  doubtless  of  your  brother  Alvar  ! 

[TERESA  looks  at  MONVIEDRO   with  disgust   and   horror. 
ORDONIO'S  appearance  to  be  collected  from  what  follows, 

MONVIEDRO.  (to  Valdez  and  pointing  at  Ordonio.) 
What,  is  he  ill,  my  Lord  ?  how  strange  he  looks  ! 

VALDEZ.  (angrily.} 

You  pressed  upon  him  too  abruptly,  father  ! 
The  fate  of  one,  on  whom,  you  know,  he  doted. 

ORDONIO.  (starting  as  in  sudden  agitation.) 

0  Heavens  !  /  ? — /  doted  ?  (then  recovering  himself.} 
Yes  !  I  doted  on  him. 

[ORDONIO  walks  to   the  end  of  the  stage,   Valdez  follows 
(soothing  him. 

TERESA,  (her  eye  following  Ordonio.) 

1  do  not,  cannot,  love  him.     Is  my  heart  hard? 
Is  iny  heart  hard  ?  that  even  now  the  thought 
Should  force  itself  upon  me  ?— Yet  I  feel  it ! 

MONVIEDRO. 

The  drops  did  start  and  stand  upon  his  forehead  ! 
I  will  return.     In  very  truth,  I  grieve 
To  have  been  the  occasion.     Ho  !  attend  me,  woman  ! 

ALHADRA.  (to  Teresa.) 
O  gentle  lady  !  make  the  father  stay, 
Until  my  lord  recover.     I  am  sure, 
That  he  will  say  he  is  my  husband's  friend. 

TERESA. 
Stay,  father  !  stay  !  my  lord  will  soon  recover. 

ORDONIO.  (as  they  return,  to  VALDEZ.) 
Strange,  that  this  Monviedro 
Should  have  the  power  so  to  distemper  me  I 

VALDEZ. 
Nay,  'twas  an  am/able  weakness,  son! 

MONVIEDRO. 
My  lord,  I  truly  grieve— 


320  COLE  RID  GE  'S  POEMS. 

ORDONIO. 

Tut !  name  it  not. 

A  sudden  seizure,  father  !  think  not  of  it. 
As  to  this  woman's  husband,  I  do  know  him, 
I  know  him  well,  and  that  he  is  a  Christian. 

MONVIEDRO. 

I  hope,  my  lord,  your  merely  human  pity 
Doth  not  prevail 

ORDONIO. 

'Tis  certain  that  he  was  a  catholic  ; 
What  changes  may  have  happened  in  three  years, 
I  cannot  say  ;  but  grant  me  this,  good  father : 
Myself  I'll  sift  him  :  if  I  find  him  sound, 
You'll  grant  me  your  authority  and  name 
To  libeiate  his  house. 

MONVIEDRO. 

Your  zeal,  my  lord, 

And  your  late  merits  in  this  holy  warfare, 
Would  authorize  an  ampler  trust — you  have  it. 

ORDONIO. 
I  will  attend  you  home  within  an  hour. 

VALDEZ. 
Meantime  return  with  us  and  take  refreshment. 

ALHADRA. 

Not  till  my  husband's  free !  I  may  not  do  it. 
I  will  stay  here. 

TERESA,  (aside.) 
Who  is  this  Isidore  ? 

VALDEZ. 
Daughter  I 

TERESA. 

With  your  permission,  my  dear  lord, 
I'll  loiter  yet  awhile  t'enjoy  the  sea-breeze. 

[Exeunt  Valdez,  Monviedro,  and  Ordonio 

ALHADRA. 
Ha  !  there  he  goes  !  a  bitter  curse  go  with  him, 


REMORSE.  321 


A  scathing  curse ! 

[Then,  as  if  recollecting  herself,  and  with  a  timid  look, 
You  hate  him,  don't  you,  lady  ? 

TERESA,  (perceiving  that  Alhadra  is  conscious  she  has  spoken 
imprudently.) 

0  fear  not  me  !  my  heart  is  sad  for  you. 

ALHADRA. 

These  fell  inquisitors  !  these  sons  of  blood  ! 
As  I  came  on,  his  face  so  maddened  me, 
That  ever  and  anon  I  clutched  rny  dagger 
And  half  unsheathed  it — 

TERESA. 
Be  more  calm,  I  pray  you. 

ALHADRA. 

And  as  he  walked  along  the  narrow  path 
Close  by  the  mountain's  edge,  my  soul  grew  eager  : 
'Twas  with  hard  toil  I  made  myself  remember 
That  his  Familiars  held  my  babes  and  husband. 
To  have  leapt  upon  him  with  a  tiger's  plunge, 
And  hurled  him  down  the  rugged  precipice, 
O,  it  had  been  most  sweet  1 

TERESA. 

Hush  !  hush  for  shame  I 
Where  is  your  woman's  heart  ? 

ALHADRA. 

O  gentle  lady  ! 

You  have  no  skill  to  guess  my  many  wrongs, 
Many  and  strange  !     Besides  (ironically),  I  am  a  Christian, 
And  Christians  never  pardon — 'tis  their  faith  ! 

TERESA. 
Shame  fall  on  those  who  so  have  shown  it  to  thee  I 

ALHADRA. 

1  know  that  man:  'tis  well  he  knows  not  ine. 
Five  years  ago  (and  he  was  the  prime  agent), 
Five  years  ago  the  holy  brethren  seized  me. 

TERESA. 
What  might  your  crime  be  ? 


322  COLERIDGE  'S  POEMS. 

ALHADRA. 

I  was  a  Moresco  ! 

They  cast  me,  then  a  young  and  nursing  mother, 
Into  a  dungeon  of  their  prison-house, 
Where  was  no  bed,  no  fire,  no  ray  of  light, 
No  touch,  no  sound  of  comfort !     The  black  air, 
It  was  a  toil  to  breathe  it !  when  the  door, 
Slow  opening  at  the  appointed  hour,  disclosed 
One  human  countenance,  the  lamp's  red  flame 
Cowered  as  it  entered,  and  at  once  sunk  down. 
Oh  miserable  !  by  that  lamp  to  see 
My  infant  quarrelling  with  the  coarse  hard  bread 
Brought  daily  :  for  the  little  wretch  was  sickly — 
My  rage  had  dried  away  its  natural  food. 
In  darkness  I  remained — the  dull  bell  counting, 
Which  haply  told  me,  that  the  all-cheering  Sun 
Was  rising  on  our  Garden.     When  I  dozed, 
My  infant's  meanings  mingled  with  my  slumbers 
And  waked  me. — If  you  were  a  mother,  lady, 
I  should  scarce  dare  to  tell  you,  that  its  noises 
And  peevish  cries  so  fretted  on  my  brain 
That  I  have  struck  the  innocent  babe  in  anger. 

TERESA. 

0  Heaven !  it  is  too  horrible  to  hear. 

ALHADRA. 

What  was  it  then  to  suffer  ?    'Tis  most  right 
That  such  as  you  should  hear  it. — Know  you  not, 
What  Nature  makes  you  mourn,  she  bids  you  heal? 
Great  Evils  ask  great  Passions  to  redress  them, 
And  Whirlwinds  fitliest  scatter  Pestilence. 

TERESA. 
You  were  at  length  released  ? 

ALHADRA. 

Yes,  at  length 

1  saw  the  blessed  arch  of  the  whole  heaven  1 
'Twas  the  first  time  my  infant  smiled.     No  more — 
For  if  I  dwell  upon  that  moment,  Lady, 

A  trance  comes  on  which  makes  me  o'er  again 
All  I  then  was — my  knees  hang  loose  arid  drag, 
And  my  lip  falls  with  such  an  idiot  laugh, 
That  you  would  start  and  shudder  ! 


REMORSE.  323 


TERESA. 

But  your  husband— 
ALHADRA. 
A  month's  imprisonment  would  kill  him,  Lady. 

TERESA. 
Alas,  poor  man ! 

ALHADRA. 

He  hath  a  lion's  courage, 
Fearless  in  act,  but  feeble  in  endurance  ; 
Unfit  for  boisterous  times,  with  gentle  heart 
He  worships  nature  in  the  hill  and  valley,  ^ 

Not  knowing  what  he  loves,  but  loves  it  all — 
Enter  ALVAR  disguised  as  a  Moresco,  and  in  Moorish  garments. 

TERESA. 
Know  you  that  stately  Moor  ? 

ALHADRA. 

I  know  him  not  I 

But  doubt  not  he  is  some  Moresco  chieftain, 
Who  hides  himself  among  the  Alpuxarras. 

TERESA. 

The  Alpuxarras  ?    Does  he  know  his  danger, 
So  near  this  seat  ? 

ALHADRA. 

He  wears  the  Moorish  robes  too, 
As  in  defiance  of  the  royal  edict. 

[Alhadra  advances  to  Alvar,  who  has  walked  to  the  back  of 
the  stage,  near  the  rocks.     Teresa  drops  her  veil. 

ALHADRA. 

Gallant  Moresco !  an  Inquisitor, 
Monviedro,  of  known  hatred  to  our  race 

ALVAR.  (interrupting  her.) 
You  have  mistaken  me.     I  am  a  Christian. 

ALHADRA. 

He  deems,  that  we  are  plotting  to  ensnare  him  : 
Speak  to  him,  Lady — none  can  hear  you  speak, 
And  not  believe  you  innocent  of  guile. 

TERESA. 
If  aught  enforce  you  to  concealment,  Sir^ 


324  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

ALHADRA. 
He  trembles  strangely. 

[Alvar  sinks  down  and  hides  his  face  in  his  robe. 

TERESA. 
See,  we  have  disturbed  him. 

[approaches  nearer  to  him. 

I  pray  you  think  us  friends — uncowl  your  face, 
For  you  seem  faint,  and  the  night  breeze  blows  healing. 
I  pray  you  think  as  friends ! 

ALVAR.  (raising  his  head.) 
Calm,  vefy  calm ! 
'Tis  all  too  tranquil  for  reality  ! 
And  she  spoke  to  me  with  her  innocent  voice, 
That  voice,  that  innocent  voice  !     She  is  no  traitress ! 

TERESA, 
Let  us  retire,  (haughtily  to  Alhadra.) 

[They  advance  to  the  front  of  the  Stage. 

ALHADRA.  (with  scorn.) 
He  is  indeed  a  Christian. 

ALVAR.  (aside.) 

She  deems  me  dead,  yet  wears  no  mourning  garment ! 
Why  should  my  brother's — wife — wear  mourning  garments? 

(To  Teresa.) 

Your  pardon,  noble  dame  !  that  I  disturbed  you  : 
I  had  just  started  from  a  frightful  dream. 

TERESA. 

Dreams  tell  but  of  the  past,  and  yet,  'tis  said, 
They  prophesy — 

ALVAR. 

The  Past  lives  o'er  again 
In  its  effects,  and  to  the  guilty  spirit 
The  ever-frowning  Present  is  its  image. 

TERESA. 
Traitress !  (then  aside.) 

What  sudden  spell  o'ermasters  me  ? 
Why  seeks  he  me,  shunning  the  Moorish  woman  ? 

[Teresa  looks  round  uneasily,  but  gradually  becomes  atten- 
tive as  Alvar  proceeds  in  the  next  speech. 


REMORSE. 


ALVAR. 

I  dreamt  I  had  a  friend,  on  whom  I  leant 
With  blindest  trust,  and  a  betrothed  maid, 
Whom  I  was  wont  to  call  riot  mine,  but  me  ; 
For  mine  own  self  seemed  nothing1,  lacking  her. 
This  maid  so  idolized  that  trusted  friend 
Dishonored  in  my  absence,  soul  and  body  ! 
Fear,  following:  guilt,  tempted  to  blacker  guilt, 
And  murderers  were  suborned  against  my  life. 
But  by  my  looks,  and  most  impassioned  words, 
I  roused  the  virtues  that  are  dead  in  no  man, 
Even  in  the  assassins'  hearts  !  they  made  their  terms, 
Arid  thanked  me  for  redeeming  them  from  murder. 

ALHADRA. 

You  are  lost  in  thought :  hear  him  no  more,  sweet  Lady  I 

TERESA. 

From  morn  to  night  I  am  myself  a  dreamer, 
And  slight  things  bring  on  me  the  idle  mood  I 
Well,  sir,  what  happened  then  ? 

ALVAR. 

On  a  rude  rock, 

A  rock,  methought,  fast  by  a  grove  of  firs, 
Whose  thready  leaves  to  the  low-breathing  gale 
Made  a  soft  sound  most  like  the  distant  ocean, 
I  stayed,  as  though  the  hour  of  death  were  passed, 
And  I  were  sitting  in  the  world  of  spirits — 
For  all  things  seemed  unreal  !     There  I  sate — 
The  dews  fell  clammy,  and  the  night  descended, 
Black,  sultry,  close !  and  ere  the  midnight  hour 
A  storm  came  on,  mingling  all  sounds  of  fear, 
That  woods,  and  sky,  and  mountains,  seemed  one  havoc. 
The  second  flash  of  lightning  showed  a  tree, 
Hard  by  me,  newly  scathed.     I  rose  tumultuous  : 
My  soul  worked  high,  I  bared  my  head  to  the  storm, 
And  with  loud  voice  arid  clamorous  agony 
Kneeling  I  prayed  to  the  great  Spirit  that  made  me,, 
Prayed,  that  REMORSE  might  fasten  on  their  hearts, 
And  cling  with  poisonous  tooth,  inextricable 
As  the  gored  lion's  bite  I 


TERESA,  (shuddering.) 
A  fearful  curse  ! 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


ALHADRA.    (fiercely.) 

But  dreamt  you  not  that  you  returned  and  killed  them  ? 
Dreamt  you  of  no  revenge  ? 

ALVAR.  (his  voice  trembling,  and  in  tones  of  deep  distress.) 

She  would  have  died, 

"Died  in  her  guilt  —  perchance  by  her  own  hands  1 
And  bending  o'er  her  self-inflicted  wounds, 
I  might  have  met  the  evil  glance  of  frenzy, 
And  leapt  myself  into  an  un  blest  grave  ! 
I  prayed  for  the  punishment  that  cleanses  hearts  : 
For  still  I  loved  her  1 

ALHADRA. 
And  you  dreamt  all  this  ? 

TERESA. 
My  soul  is  full  of  visions  all  as  wild  ! 

ALHADRA. 
There's  no  room  in  his  heart  for  puling  love  tales. 

TERESA,     (lifts  up  her  veil  and  advances  to  Alvar.) 
Stranger,  farewell  !  I  guess  not  who  you  are, 
Nor  why  you  so  addressed  your  tale  to  me. 
Your  mien  is  noble,  and  I  own,  perplexed  me 
With  obscure  memory  of  something  past, 
Which  still  escaped  my  efforts,  or  presented 
Tricks  of  a  fancy  pampered  with  long  wishing. 
If,  as  it  sometimes  happens,  our  rude  startling 
Whilst  your  full  heart  was  shaping  out  its  dream, 
Drove  you  to  this,  your  not  ungentle  wildness  — 
You  have  my  sympathy,  and  so  farewell  ! 
But  if  some  undiscovered  wrongs  oppress  you, 
And  you  need  strength  to  drag  them  into  light, 
The  generous  Valdez,  and  my  Lord  Ordonio, 
Have  arm  and  will  to  aid  a  noble  sufferer, 
Nor  shall  you  want  my  favorable  pleading. 

[Exeunt  Teresa  and  Alhadra* 

ALVAR.    (alone.) 

'Tis  strange  !    It  cannot  be  my  Lord  Ordonio  1 
Her  Lord  Ordonio  !     Nay,  1  will  not  do  it  ! 
I  cursed  him  once  —  and  one  curse  is  enough  \ 
How  sad  she  looked,  and  pale  1  but  not  like  guilt—- 
And her  calm  tones  —  sweet  as  a  song  of  mercy  ! 
If  the  bad  spirit  retained  his  angel's  voice, 
Hell  scarce  were  Hell.     And  why  riot  innocent? 


REMORSE.  327 


Who  meant  to  murder  me,  might  well  cheat  her  ? 

But  ere  she  married  him,  he  had  stained  her  honor. 

All  !  there  I  am  hampered.     What  if  this  were  a  ue 

Framed  by  the  assassin  ?     Who  should  tell  it  him, 

If  it  were  truth  ?     Ordonio  would  not  tell  him. 

Yet  why  one  lie  ?  all  else,  I  know,  was  truth. 

No  start,  no  jealousy  of  stirring  conscience  ! 

And  she  referred  to  me — fondly,  methought ! 

Could  she  walk  here  if  she  had  been  a  traitress  ? 

Here  where  we  played  together  in  our  childhood  ? 

Here  where  we  plighted  vows  ?  where  her  cold  cheek 

Received  my  last  kiss,  when  with  suppressed  feelings 

She  had  fainted  in  my  arms  ?     It  cannot  be  ! 

'Tis  not  in  nature  !     I  will  die  believing, 

That  I  shall  meet  her  where  no  evil  is, 

No  treachery,  no  cup  dashed  from  the  lips. 

I'll  haunt  this  scene  no  more  !  live  she  in  peace  ! 

Her  husband — ay,  her  husband  !     May  this  angel 

New  mould  his  cankered  heart  ?  Assist  me,  Heaven, 

That  I  may  pray  for  my  poor  guilty  brother.  [Exit. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  I. 

A  wild  and  mountainous  Country.    ORDONIO  and  ISIDORE 
discovered,  supposed  at  a  little  distance  from  ISIDORE'S  house* 

ORDONIO. 

Here  we  may  stop  :  your  house  distinct  in  view, 
Yet  we  secured  from  listeners. 

ISIDORE. 

Now  indeed 

My  house  !  and  it  looks  cheerful  as  the  clusters 
Basking  in  sunshine  on  yon  vine-clad  rock, 
That  over- brows  it !     Patron  !  Friend  !  Preserver ! 
Thrice  have  you  saved  my  life.     Once  in  the  battle 
You  gave  it  me  :  next  rescued  me  from  suicide 
When  for  my  follies  I  was  made  to  wander, 
With  mouths  to  feed,  and  not  a  morsel  for  them  : 
Now,  but  for  you,  a  dungeon's  slimy  stones 
Had  been  my  bed  and  pillow. 

ORDONIO. 

Good  Isidore ! 
Why  this  to  me  ?    It  is  enough,  you  know  it. 


328  COLER:DGE'S  POEMS. 


ISIDORE. 

A  common  trick  of  Gratitude,  my  lord, 
Seeking  to  ease  her  own  full  heart 

ORDONTO. 

Enough ! 

A  debt  repaid  ceases  to  be  a  debt, 
You  have  it  in  your  power  to  serve  me  greatly. 

ISIDORE. 

And  how,  my  lord  ?     I  pray  you  to  name  the  thing. 
I  would  climb  up  an  ice-glazed  precipice 
To  pluck  a  weed  you  fancied  ! 

ORDONIO.  (with  embarrassment  and  hesitation.} 
Why— that— Lady— 

ISIDORE. 

'Tis  now  three  years,  my  lord,  since  last  I  saw  you : 
Have  you  a  son,  my  lord  ? 

ORDONIO. 

O  miserable —  [aside. 

Isidore  !  you  are  a  man,  and  know  mankind. 
I  told  you  what  I  wished — now  for  the  truth — 
She  loved  the  man  you  killed. 

ISIDORE,  (looking  as  suddenly  alarmed.) 

You  jest,  my  lord  ? 
ORDONIO. 
And  till  his  death  is  proved  she  will  not  wed  me. 

ISIDORE. 
You  sport  with  me,  my  lord  ? 

ORDOXIO. 

Come,  come  !  this  foolery 
Lives  only  in  thy  looks,  thy  heart  disowns  it ! 

ISIDORE. 

I  can  bear  this,  and  anything  more  grievous 
From  you,  my  lord — but  how  can  I  serve  you  here  ? 

ORDONIO. 

Why  you  can  utter  with  a  solemn  gesture 
Oracular  sentences  of  deep  no-meaning, 
Wear  a  quaint  garment,  make  mysterious  antics — 


REMORSE.  329 


ISIDORE. 
I  am  dull,  my  lord  !  I  do  not  comprehend  you. 

ORDONIO. 

In  blunt  terms,  you  can  play  the  sorcerer. 
She  hath  no  faith  in  Holy  Church,  'tis  true  : 
Her  lover  schooled  her  in  some  newer  nonsense  I 
Yet  still  a  tale  of  spirits  works  upon  her. 
She  is  a  lone  enthusiast,  sensitive, 
Shivers,  and  cannot  keep  the  tears  in  her  eye  : 
And  such  do  love  the  marvellous  too  well 
Not  to  believe  it.     We  will  wind  up  her  fancy 
With  a  strange  music,  that  she  knows  not  of — 
With  fumes  of  frankincense,  and  mummery, 
Then  leave,  as  one  sure  token  of  his  death, 
That  portrait,  which  from  off  the  dead  man's  neck 
I  bade  thee  take,  the  trophy  of  thy  conquest. 

ISIDORE. 
Will  that  be  a  sure  sign  ? 

ORDONIO. 
Beyond  suspicion. 

Fondly  caressing  him,  her  favored  lover 
(By  some  base  spell  he  had  bewitched  her  senses), 
She  whispered  such  dark  fears  of  me  forsooth, 
As  made  this  heart  pour  gall  into  niy  veins. 
And  as  she  coyly  bound  it  round  his  neck 
She  made  him  promise  silence  ;  and  now  holds 
The  secret  of  the  existence  of  this  portrait 
Known  only  to  her  lover  and  herself. 
But  I  had  traced  her,  stolen  unnoticed  on  them, 
And  unsuspected  saw  and  heard  the  whole. 

ISIDORE. 

But  now  1  should  have  cursed  the  man  who  told  me 
You  could  ask  aught,  my  lord,  and  I  refuse — 
But  £his  I  cannot  do. 

ORDONIO. 
Where  lies  your  scruple  ? 

ISIDORE,  (with  stammering.) 

Why — why,  my  lord  I 

lou  know  you  told  me  that  the  lady  loved  yoa, 
Had  loved  you  with  incautious  tenderness  ; 
That  if  the  young  man,  her  betrothed  husband,      % 


33°  COLERIDGE  'S  POEMS. 

Returned,  yourself,  and  she,  and  the  honor  of  both 
Must  perish.   Now,  though  with  no  tenderer  scruples 
Than  those  which  being  native  to  the  heart, 
Than  those,  my  lord,  which  merely  being  a  man — 

ORDONIO.  (aloud,  though  to  express  his  contempt  he  speaks  in  the 

third  person.} 

This  Fellow  is  a  Man — he  killed  for  hire 
One  whom  he  knew  not,  yet  has  tender  scruples ! 

[  Then  turning  to  Isidore. 

These  doubts,  these  fears,  thy  whine,  thy  stammering — 
Pish,  fool !  thou  blunder'st  through  the  book  of  guilt, 
Spelling  thy  villany. 

ISIDORE. 

My  lord— my  lord, 

I  can  bear  much— yes,  very  much  from  you  ! 
But  there's  a  point  where  suffeqance  is  meanness  ; 
I  am  no  villain — never  killed  for  hire — 
My  gratitude — 

ORDONIO. 

O  ay— your  gratitude  ! 
'Twas  a  well-sounding  word— what  have  you  done  with  it? 

ISIDORE, 
Who  proffers  his  past  favors  for  my  virtue — 

ORDONIO.  (ivith  bitter  scorn.) 

ISIDORE, 

Tries  to  o'erveach  me — is  a  very  sharper, 
And  should  not  speak  of  gratitude,  my  lord, 
I  knew  not  'twas  your  brother  ! 

ORDONIO.  (alarmed ) 

And  who  told  you  ? 
ISIDORE. 
He  himself  told  me. 

ORDONIO.  • 

Ha !  you  talked  with  him  ! 
And  those,  the  two  Morescoes  who»were  with  you  ? 

ISIDORE. 
Both  fell  in  a  night  brawl  at  Malaga. 

ORDONIO.  (in  a  low  voice.) 
^  My  brother — 


REMORSE.  331 


ISIDORE. 

Fes,  my  lord,  I  could  not  tell  you  ! 
I  thrust  away  the  thought — it  drove  me  wild. 
Put  listen  to  me  now— I  pray  you  listen 

ORDONIO. 
Villain  !  no  more.     I'll  hear  no  more  of  it. 

ISIDORE. 

My  lord,  it  much  imports  your  future  safety 
That  you  should  hear  it. 

ORDONIO.  (turning  off  from  Isidore.) 

Am  not  /  a  Man  ? 

•Tis  as  it  should  be  !  tut— the  deed  itself 
Was  idle,  and  these  after-pangs  still  idler ! 

ISIDORE. 

We  met  him  in  the  very  place  you  mentioned, 
Hard  by  a  grove  of  firs — 

ORDONIO. 

Enou  gh— enough — 

ISIDORE. 

He  fought  us  valiantly,  and  wounded  all ; 
In  fine,  compelled  a  parley. 

ORDONIO.  (sighing,  as  if  lost  in  thought.} 
Alvar !   brother ! 

ISIDORE. 
He  offered  me  his  purse— 

ORDONIO.  (with  eager  suspicion.) 

Yes? 

ISIDORE,  (indignantly.) 

Yes — I  spurned  it. 

He  promised  us  I  know  not  what — in  vain  ! 
Then  with  a  look  and  voice  that  overawed  me, 
He  said,  What  mean  you,  friends  ?     My  life  is  dear  : 
I  have  a  brother  and  a  promised  wife, 
Who  make  life  dear  to  me — and  if  I  fall, 
That  brother  will  roam  earth  and  hell  for  vengeance. 
There  was  a  likeness  in  his  face  to  yours  : 
I  asked  his  brother's  name  :  he  said — Ordonio, 
Son  of  Lord  Valdez  !  I  had  well  nigh  fainted. 
At  length  1  said  (if  that  indeed  /  said  it, 


33 2  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


And  that  no  Spirit  made  my  tongue  its  organ), 

That  woman  is  dishonored  by  that  brother, 

And  he  the  man  who  sent  us  to  destroy  you. 

He  drove  a  thrust  at  me  in  rage.     I  told  him 

He  wore  her  portrait  round  his  neck.     Ho  looked 

As  he  had  been  made  of  the  rock  that  propt  his  back — 

Ay,  just  as  you  look  now — only  less  ghastly  ! 

At  length  recovering  from  his  trance,  he  threw 

His  sword  away,  and  bade  us  take  his  life, 

It  was  riot  worth  his  keeping. 

ORDONIO. 

And  you  killed  him  ? 

Oh  blood-hounds  I  may  eternal  wrath  flame  round  you  ! 
He  was  his  Maker's  Image  undefaced !  [a  pause 

It  seizes  me — by  Hell  I  will  go  on  ! 

What — would'st   thou   stop,   man  ?   thy  pale  looks   won't   save 
thee !  [a  pause. 

Oh  cold— cold— cold  !  shot  through  with  icy  cold  ! 

ISIDORE,  (aside.) 

Were  he  alive  he  had  returned  ere  now. 
The  consequence  the  same — dead  through  his  plotting  ! 

ORDONIO. 

O  this  unutterable  dying  away — here — 
This  sickness  of  the  heart !  [a  pause. 

What  if  I  went 

And  lived  in  a  hollow  tomb,  and  fed  on  weeds  ? 
Ay  !  that's  the  road  to  heaven  !     O  fool !  fool !  fool !         [a  pause. 
What  have  I  done  but  that  which  nature  destined, 
Or  the  blind  elements  stirred  up  within  me? 
If  good  were  meant,  why  were  we  made  these  Beings  ? 
And  if  not  meant — 

ISIDORE. 
You  are  disturbed,  my  lord  ! 

ORDONIO.  (starts,  looks  at  him  wildly :  then,  after  a  pause,  during 

which  his  features  are  forced  into  a  smile.). 
A  gust  of  the  soul  !  i'faith,  it  overset  me. 
O  'twas  all  folly — all  !  idle  as  laughter  ! 
Now,  Isidore  !  I  swear  that  thou  shalt  aid  me. 

ISTDORE.  (in  a  low  voice.) 
I'll  perish  first  I 

ORDONIO. 
What  dost  thou  mutter  of? 


REMORSE.  333 


ISIDORE. 
Some  of  your  servants  know  me,  I  am  certain. 

ORDONIO. 
There's  some  sense  in  that  scruple  ;  but  we'll  mask  you, 

ISIDORE. 

They'll  know  my  gait :  b»it  stay  !  last  night  I  watched 
A  stranger  near  the  ruin  in  the  wood, 
Who  as  it  seemed  was  gathering  herbs  arid  wild  flowers. 
I  had  followed  him  at  distance,  seen  him  scale 
Its  western  wall,  and  by  an  easier  entrance 
Stol'n  after  him  unnoticed.     There  I  marked, 
That  mid  the  checker-work  of  light  and  shade 
With  curious  choice  he  plucked  no  other  flowers, 
But  those  on  which  the  moonlight  fell :  and  once 
I  heard  him  muttering  o'er  the  plant.     A  Wizard — 
Some  gaunt  slave  prowling  here  for  dark  employment. 

ORDONIO. 
Doubtless  you  questioned  him  ? 

ISIDORE. 

'Twas  my  intention, 

Having  first  traced  him  homeward  to  his  haunt. 
But  lo  !  the  stern  Dominican,  whose  spies 
Lurk  everywhere,  already  (as  it  seemed) 
Had  given  commission  to  his  apt  familiar 
To  seek  and  sound  the  Moor  ;  who  now  returning, 
Was  by  this  trusty  agent  stopped  midway. 
I,  dreading  fresh  suspicion  if  found  near  him 
In  that  lone  place,  again  concealed  myself  : 
Yet  within  hearing.     So  the  Moor  was  questioned, 
And  in  your  name,  as  lord  of  this  domain, 
Proudly  he  answered,  '  Say  to  the  Lord  Ordonio, 
'  He  that  can  bring  the  dead  to  life  again  ! ' 

ORDONIO. 
A  strange  reply ! 

ISIDORE. 

Ay,  all  of  him  is  strange. 
He  called  himself  a  Christian,  yet  he  wears 
The  Moorish  robes,  as  if  he  courted  death. 

ORDONIO. 
Where  does  this  wizard  live  ? 


334  COLERWG2S  POEMS. 

ISIDORE,  (pointing  to  the  distance.} 

You  see  that  brooklet  ? 

Trace  its  course  backward  :  through  a  narrow  opening 
It  leads  you  to  the  place. 

ORDONIO. 

How  shall  I  know  it  ? 

ISIDORE. 

You  cannot  err.     It  is  a  small  green  dell 
Built  all  around  with  high  off-sloping  hills, 
And  from  its  shape  our  peasants  aptly  call  it 
The  Giant's  Cradle.     There's  a  lake  in  the  midst, 
And  round  its  banks  tall  wood  that  branches  over, 
And  makes  a  kind  of  faery  forest  grow 
Down  in  the  water.     At  the  further  end 
A  puny  cataract  falls  on  the  lake  ; 
And  there,  a  curious  sight !  you  see  its  shadow 
Forever  curling,  like  a  wreath  of  smoke, 
Up  through  the  foliage  of  those  faery  trees. 
His  cot  stands  opposite.     You  cannot  miss  it. 

ORDONIO.  (in  retiring  stops  suddenly  at  the  edge  of  the  scene* 

and  then  turning  round  to  Isidore.) 
Ha  !  —Who  lurks  there  ?  Have  we  been  overheard  ? 
There  where  the  smooth  high  wall  of  slate-rock  glitters — 

ISIDORE. 

'Neath  those  tall  stones,  which  propping  each  the  other, 
Form  a  mock  portal  with  their  pointed  arch  ? 
Pardon  my  smiles  ?     'Tis  a  poor  Idiot  Boy, 
Who  sits  in  the  Sun,  and  twirls  a  bough  about, 
His  weak  eyes  are  seethed  in  most  unmeaning  tears. 
And  so  he  sits,  swaying  his  cone-like  Head, 
And  staring  at  his  Bough  from  Morn  to  Sun-set 
See-saws  his  Voice  in  inarticulate  Noises. 

ORDONIO. 
'Tis  well  1  and  now  for  this  same  Wizard's  Lair, 

ISIDORE. 

Some  three  strides  up  the  hill,  a  mountain  ash, 
Stretches  its  lower  boughs  and  scarlet  clusters 
O'er  the  old  thatch. 

ORDONIO. 
I  shall  not  fail  to  find  it 

[Exeunt  Ordonio  ana  Isidore, 


REMORSE.  335 


SCENE  II. 

The  inside  of  a  Cottage,  around  which  flowers  and  plants  of  vari* 
ous  kinds  are  seen.  Discovers  Alvar,  Zulimez,  and  Alhadra, 
as  on  the  point  of  leaving. 

ALHADRA.  (addressing  Alvar.) 

Farewell  then  !  and  though  many  thoughts  perplex  me, 
Aught  evil  or  ignoble  never  can  I 
Suspect  of  thee  !     If  what  thou  seem'st  thou  art, 
The  oppressed  brethren  of  thy  blood  have  need 
Of  such  a  leader. 

ALVAR. 

Nobly-minded  woman ! 

Long  time  against  oppression  have  I  fought, 
And  for  the  native  liberty  of  faith 
Have  bled  and  suffered  bonds.     Of  this  be  certain  : 
TIME,  as  he  courses  onward,  still  unrolls 
The  volume  of  Concealment.     In  the  FUTURE, 
As  in  the  optician's  glassy  cylinder, 
The  indistinguishable  blots  and  colors 
Of  the  dim  PAST  collect  and  shape  themselves, 
Upstarting  in  their  own  completed  image 
To  scare  or  to  reward. 

I  sought  the  guilty, 

And  what  I  sought  I  found  :  but  ere  the  spear 
Flew  from  my  hand,  there  rose  an  angel  form 
Betwixt  me  and  my  aim.     With  baffled  purpose, 
To  the  Avenger  I  leave  Vengeance,  and  depart ! 
Whate'er  betide,  if  aught  my  arm  may  aid, 
Or  power  protect,  my  word  is  pledged  to  thee  : 
For  many  are  thy  wrongs,  and  thy  soul  noble. 
Once  more  farewell.  [Exit  Alhadra 

Yes,  to  the  Belgic  states 

We  will  return.     These  robes,  this  stained  complexion, 
Akin  to  falsehood,  weigh  upon  my  spirit. 
Whate'er  befall  us,  the  heroic  Maurice 
Will  grant  us  an  asylum,  in  remembrance 
Of  our  past  services. 

ZULIMEZ. 

And  all  the  wealth,  power,  influence  which  is  yours, 
You  let  a  murderer  hold 

ALVAR. 

O  faithful  Zuliinez ! 
That  my  return  involved  Ordonio's  death, 


336  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

\  trust,  would  give  me  an  unraingled  pang, 
Yet  bearable  : — but  when  I  see  my  father 
Strewing  his  scant  gray  hairs,  e'en  on  the  ground, 
Which  soon  must  be  his  grave,  and  my  TERESA — 
Her  husband  proved  a  murderer,  and  her  infants 
His  infants — poor  TERESA  : — all  would  perish, 
All  perish — all  !  and  I  (nay  bear  with  me) 
Could  not  survive  the  complicated  ruin  ! 

ZULIMEZ.  (much  affected.) 

Nay  now !  I  have  distressed  you — you  well  know, 
I  ne'er  will  quit  your  fortunes.     True,  'tis  tiresome  ! 
You  are  a  painter,*  one  of  many  fancies ! 
You  can  call  up  past  deeds,  and  make  them  live 
On  the  blank  canvas  ;  and  each  little  herb, 
That  grows  on  mountain  bleak,  or  tangled  forest, 

You  have  learnt  to  name 

Hark !  heard  you  not  some  footsteps  ? 

ALVAR. 

What  if  it  were  my  brother  coming  onwards  ? 
I  sent  a  most  mysterious  message  to  him. 

Enter  ORDONIO. 

ALVAR.  (starting.) 
It  is  he ! 

ORDONIO.  (to  himself  as  he  enters.) 
If  I  distinguished  right  her  gait  and  stature, 
It  was  the  Moorish  woman,  Isidore's  wife, 
That  passed  me  as  I  entered.     A  lit  taper, 
In  the  night  air,  doth  not  more  naturally 
Attract  the  night  flies  around  it,  than  a  conjurer 
Draws  round  him  the  whole  female  neighborhood. 

[Addressing  Alvar. 

You  know  my  name,  I  guess,  if  not  my  person. 
I  ain  Ordonio,  son  of  the  Lord  Valdez. 

ALVAR.  (with  deep  emotion.) 
The  Son  of  Valdez  ! 

Ordonio  walks  leisurely  round  the  room,  and  looks  attentively  at 

the  plants. 

ZULIMEZ.  (to  Alvar.) 

Why  what  ails  you  now  ? 
How  your  hand  trembles  !     Alvar,  speak  !  what  wish  you  ? 

*  Vide  Appendix. 


REMORSE.  337 


ALVAR. 
To  fall  upon  his  neck  and  weep  forgiveness  ! 

ORDONIO.  (returning,  and  aloud,) 
Plucked  in  the  moonlight  from  a  ruined  abbey — 
Those  only,  which  the  pale  rays  visited  ! 
O  the  unintelligible  power  of  weeds, 

When  a  few  odd  prayers  have  been  muttered  o'er  them : 
Then  they  work  miracles  !    I  warrant  you, 
There's  not  a  leaf  but  underneath  it  lurks 
Some  serviceable  imp. 

There's  one  of  you 
Hath  sent  me  a  strange  message. 

ALVAR. 

I  am  he. 

ORDONIO. 
With  you,  then,  I  am  to  speak  : 

(Haughtily  waving  his  hand  to  Zulimez.) 

And  mark  you,  alone.  [Exit  ZulimeZ. 

'  Ho  that  can  bring  the  dead  to  life  again  ! ' — 
Such  was  your  message,  sir !     You  are  no  dullard, 
But  one  that  strips  the  outward  rind  of  things  ! 

ALVAR. 

'Tis  fabled  there  are  fruits  with  tempting  rinds, 
That  are  all  dust  and  rottenness  within. 
Would'st  thou  I  should  strip  such  ? 

ORDONIO. 

Thou  quibbling  fool, 

What  dost  thou  mean  ?    Think'st  thou  I  journeyed  hither, 
To  sport  with  thee  ? 

ALVAR. 

O  no,  my  lord  !  to  sport 
Best  suits  the  gayety  of  innocence. 

ORDONIO.  (aside.) 

O  what  a  thing  is  man  !  the  wisest  heart 
A  fool !  a  fool  that  laughs  at  its  own  folly, 

Yet  still  a  fool !  [Looks  round  the  cottage. 

You  are  poor  ! 

ALVAR. 

"What  follows  thence  ? 

22 


33**  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

ORDONIO. 

That  you  would  fain  be  richer. 
The  Inquisition,  too — You  comprehend  me  ? 
You  are  poor,  in  peril.     I  have  wealth  and  power, 
Can  quench  the  flames,  and  cure  your  poverty  : 
And  for  the  boon  I  ask  of  you  but  this, 
That  you  should  serve  me — once — for  a  few  hours. 

ALVAR.  (solemnly.) 

Thou  art  the  son  of  Valdez  !  would  to  Heaven 
That  I  could  truly  and  forever  serve  thee. 

ORDONIO. 
The  slave  begins  to  soften.  [aside. 

You  are,  my  friend, 

'He  that  can  bring  the  dead  to  life  again.' 
Nay,  no  defence  to  me  !     The  holy  brethren 
Believe  these  calumnies — I  know  thee  better. 

(then  with  great  bitterness.) 
Thou  art  a  man,  and  as  a  man  I'll  trust  thee ! 

ALVAR.  (aside.) 
Alas  !  this  hollow  mirth — Declare  your  business. 

ORDONIO. 

I  love  a  lady,  and  she  would  love  me 
But  for  an  idle  and  fantastic  scruple. 
Have  you  no  servants  here,  no  listeners  ? 

[Ordonio  steps  to  the  door. 
ALVAR. 

What,  faithless  too  ?     False  to  his  angel  wife  ? 
To  such  a  wife  ?     Well  might'st  thou  look  so  wan, 

Ill-starred  Teresa Wretch  !  my  softer  soul 

Is  passed  away,  and  I  will  probe  his  conscience  ! 

ORDONIO. 

In  truth  this  lady  loved  another  man, 
But  he  has  perished. 

ALVAR. 
What !  you  killed  him  ?  hey  ? 

ORDONIO. 

I'll  dash  thee  to  the  earth,  if  thou  but  think'st  it ! 
Insolent  slave  1  how  dar'dst  thou — 

[Turns  abruptly  from  Alvar,  and  then  to  himself. 


REMORSE.  330 


Why!  what's  this? 

'Twas  idiotcy  !    I'll  tie  myself  to  an  aspen, 
And  wear  a  fool's  cap — 

ALVAR.  (watching  his  agitation.) 

Fare  thee  well — 
I  pity  thee,  Ordonio,  even  to  anguish.  [Alvar  is  retiring 

ORDONIO.  (having  recovered  himself.} 

Ho !     «  [calling  to  Alvar* 

ALVAR. 
Be  brief,  what  wish  you  ? 

ORDONIO. 

You  are  deep  at  bartering— You  cfrarge  yourself 
At  a  round  sum.     Come,  come,  I  spake  unwisely. 

ALVAR. 
I  listen  to  you. 

ORDONIO. 

In  a  sudden  tempest, 

Did  Alvar  perish — he,  I  mean-— the  lover — 
The  fellow 

ALVAR. 

Nay,  speak  out !  'twill  ease  your  heart 
To  call  him  villain  ! — Why  stand'st  thou  aghast  ? 
Men  think  it  natural  to  hate  their  rivals. 

ORDONIO.  (hesitating.} 
Now,  till  she  knows  him  dead,  she  will  not  wed  me. 

ALVAR.  (with  eager  vehemence.) 
Are  you  not  wedded  then  ?  Merciful  Heaven  ! 
Not  wedded  to  TERESA  ? 

ORDONIO. 

Why  what  ails  thee  ? 

What,  art  thou  mad  ?  why  look'st  thou  upward  so  ? 
Dost  pray  to  Lucifer,  Prince  of  the  Air  ? 

ALVAR.  (recollecting  himself.) 
Proceed,  I  shall  be  silent. 

[Alvar  sits,  and  leaning  on  the  table,  hides  his  f we. 

ORDONIO. 

To  Teresa  f 


340  COLERIDGE  'S  POEMS. 


Politic  wizard  !  ere  you  sent  that  message, ' 

You  had  conned  your  lesson,  made  yourself  proficient 

In  all  my  fortunes.     Hah  !  you  prophesied 

A  golden  crop  !     Well,  you  have  not  mistaken — 

Be  faithful  to  me  and  I'll  pay  thee  nobly. 

ALVAR.  (lifting  up  his  head.) 
Well !  and  this  lady  ! 

ORDONIO. 

If  wo  could  make  her  certain  of  his  death, 
She  needs  must  wed  me.     Ere  her  lover  left  her, 
She  tied  a  little  portrait  round  his  neck, 
Entreating  him  to  wear  it. 

ALVAR.  (sighing.) 

Yes  !  he  did  so  1 

ORDONIO. 

Why  no  :  he  was  afraid  of  accidents, 
Of  robberies,  and  shipwrecks,  and  the  like. 
In  secrecy  he  gave  it  me  to  keep, 
Till  his  return. 

ALVAR. 
What  I  he  was  your  friend  then  ? 

ORDONIO.  (wounded  and  embarrassed.) 
I  was  his  friend. — 

Now  that  he  gave  it  me, 

This  lady  knows  not.     You  are  a  mighty  wizard — 
Can  call  the  dead  man  up — he  will  not  come — 
He  is  in  heaven  then — there  you  have  no  influence. 
Still  there  are  tokens — and  your  imps  may  bring  you 
Something  he  wore  about  him  when  he  died. 
And  when  the  smoke  of  the  incense  on  the  altar 
Is  passed,  your  spirits  will  have  left  this  picture. 
What  say  you  now  ? 

ALVAR.  (after  a  pause.) 
Ordonio,  I  will  do  it. 

ORDONIO. 

We'll  hazard  no  delay.     Be  it  to-night, 
In  the  early  evening.     Ask  for  the  Lord  Valdez. 
I  will  prepare  him.     Music  too,  arid  incense 
For  I  have  arranged  it — Music,  Altar,  IncenseX 


REMORSE.  341 


All  shall  be  ready.  Here  is  this  same  picture 
And  here,  what  you  will  value  more,  a  purse. 
Come  early  for  your  magic  ceremonies. 

ALVAR. 
I  will  not  fail  to  meet  you. 

ORDONIO. 
Till  next  we  meet,  farewell !  [Exit  Ordonio. 

ALVAR.  (alone,  indignantly  flings  the  purse  away  and  gazes  pas* 
sionately  at  the  portrait.) 

And  I  did  curse  thee  ? 

At  midnight  ?  on  my  knees  ?  and  I  believed 
Thee  perjured,  thee  a  traitress?    Thee  dishonored? 

0  blind  and  credulous  fool !     O  guilt  of  folly  ! 
Should  not  thy  inarticulate  Fondnesses, 

Thy  Infant  Loves — should  not  thy  Maiden  Vows 
Have  come  upon  my  heart  ?    And  this  sweet  Image 
•Tied  round  my  neck  with  many  a  chaste  endearment, 
And  thrilling  hands,  that  made  me  weep  and  tremble — 
Ah,  coward  dupe  !  to  yield  it  to  the  miscreant, 
Who  spake  pollution  of  thee  !  barter  for  Life 
This  farewell  Pledge,  which  with  impassioned  Vow 

1  had  sworn  that  I  would  grasp — ev'n  in  my  Death-pang  I 

I  am  unworthy  of  thy  love,  Teresa, 

Of  that  unearthly  smile  upon  those  lips, 

Which  ever  smiled  on  me  !     Yet  do  not  scorn  me — 

1  lisped  thy  name,  ere  I  had  learnt  my  mother's. 

Dear  Portrait !  rescued  from  a  traitor's  keeping, 
1  will  not  now  profane  thee,  holy  Image, 
To  a  dark  trick.     That  worst  bad  man  shall  find 
A  picture,  which  will  wake  the  hell  within  him, 
And  rouse  a  fiery  whirlwind  in  his  conscience. 


342  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


ACT  III.— SCEKI  I. 

A.  Hall  of  Armory,  with  an  Altar  at  the  back  of  the  Stage.     Soft 
Music  from  an  Instrument  of  Glass  or  /Steel. 

VALDEZ,  ORDONIO,  and  ALVAR  in  a  Sorcerer's  robe,  are  discovered. 

ORDONIO. 
This  was  too  melancholy,  Father. 

VALDEZ. 

Nay, 

My  Alvar  loved  sad  music  from  a  child. 
Once  he  was  lost  \  and  after  weary  search 
We  found  him  in  an  open  place  in  the  wood, 
To  which  spot  he  had  followed  a  blind  boy, 
Who  breathed  into  a  pipe  of  sycamore 
Some  strangely  moving  notes  :  and  these,  he  said, 
Were  taught  him  in  a  dream.     Him  we  first  saw 
Stretched  on  the  broad  top  of  a  sunny  heath-bank  : 
And  lower  down  poor  ALVAR,  fast  asleep, 
His  head  upon  the  blind  boy's  dog.     It  pleased  me 
To  mark  how  he  had  fastened  round  the  pipe 
A  silver  toy  his  grandam  had  late  given  him. 
Methinks  I  see  him  now  as  he  then  looked — 
Even  so  ! — He  had  outgrown  his  infant  dress, 
Yet  still  he  wore  it. 

ALVAR. 

My  tears  must  not  flow  ! 

I  must  not  clasp  his  knees,  and  cry,  My  father ! 
Enter  TERESA,  and  Attendants, 

TERESA. 

Lord  Valdez,  you  have  asked  my  presence  here, 
And  I  submit ;  but  (Heaven  bear  witness  for  me) 
My  heart  approves  it  not !  'tis  mockery 

ORDONIO. 

Believe  you  then  no  preternatural  influence  ? 
Believe  you  not  that  spirits  throng  around  us  ? 

TERESA. 

Say  rather  that  I  have  imagined  it 
A  possible  thing  :  and  it  has  soothed  my  soul 
As  other  fancies  have  ;  but  ne'er  seduced  me 
To  traffic  with  the  black  and  frenzied  hope 
That  the  dead  hear  the  voice  of  witch  or  wizard. 
(To  Alvar.)  Stranger,  I  mourn  and  blush  to  see  you  here, 


REMORSE.  343 


On  such  employment !    With  far  other  thoughts 
I  left  you. 

ORDONIO.  (aside.) 

Ha  !  he  has  been  tampering  with  her  ? 

ALVAB. 

0  high-souled  Maiden  !  and  more  dear  to  me 
Than  suits  the  Stranger's  name  ! — 

I  swear  to  thee 

1  will  uncover  all  concealed  guilt. 

Doubt,  but  decide  not !     Stand  ye  from  the  altar. 

[Here  a  strain  of  music  is  heard  from  behind  the  scene. 

ALVAR. 

With  no  irreverent  voice  or  uncouth  charm 
I  call  up  the  Departed ! 

Soul  of  Alvar ! 

Hear  our  soft  suit,  and  heed  my  milder  spell : 
So  may  the  Gates  of  Paradise,  unbarred, 
Cease  thy  swift  toils  !     Since  haply  thou  art  one 
Of  that  innumerable  company 
Who  in  broad  circle,  lovelier  than  the  rainbow, 
Girdle  this  round  earth  in  a  dizzy  motion, 
With  noise  too  vast  and  constant  to  be  heard : 
Fitliest  unheard  !     For  oh,  ye  numberless 
And  rapid  Travellers  !  what  ear  unstunned, 
What  sense  unmaddened,  might  bear  up  against 
The  rushing  of  your  congregated  wings  ?  [Music. 

Even  now  your  living  wheel  turns  o'er  niy  head  ! 

[Music  expressive  of  the  movements  and  images  that  follow. 
Ye,  as  ye  pass,  toss  high  the  desert  sands, 
That  roar  and  whiten,  like  a  burst  of  waters, 
A  sweet  appearance,  but  a  dread  illusion 
To  the  parched  caravan  that  roams  by  night ! 
And  ye  build  up  on  the  becalmed  waves 
That  whirling  pillar,  which  from  Earth  to  Heaven 
Stands  vast,  and  moves  in  blackness  !     Ye  too  split 
The  ice  mount !  and  with  fragments  many  and  huge 
Tempest  the  new-thawed  sea,  whose  sudden  gulphs 
Suck  in,  perchance,  some  Lapland  wizard's  skiff  ! 
Then  round  and  round  the  whirlpool's  marge  ye  dance, 
Till  from  the  blue  swoln  Corse  the  Soul  toils  out, 
And  joins  your  mighty  Army. 

[Here  behind  the  scenes  a  voice  sings  the  three  words,  'Hear, 
Sweet  Spirit.' 

Soul  of  Alvar ! 
Hear  the  mild  spell,  and  tempt  no  blacker  Charm ! 


344  COLERIDGE  'S  POEMS. 

Cy  sighs  unquiet,  and  the  sickly  pang 

Of  a  half  dead,  yet  still  undying  Hope, 

Pass  visible  before  our  mortal  sense  ! 

So  shall  the  Church's  cleansing  rites  be  thine, 

Her  knells  and  masses  that  redeem  the  Dead ! 

SONG. 

Behind  the  Scenes,  accompanied  by  the  same  Instrument  as  before. 

Hear,  sweet  spirit,  hear  the  spell, 

Lest  a  blacker  charm  compel ! 

So  shall  the  midnight  breezes  swell 

With  thy  deep  long-lingering  knell. 

And  at  evening  evermore, 

In  a  Chapel  on  the  shore^ 

Shall  the  Chaunters  sad  and  saintly, 

Yellow  tapers  burning  faintly, 

Doleful  Masses  chaunt  for  thee, 

Miserere  Domine  ! 

Hark !  the  cadence  dies  away 

On  the  yellow,  moonlight  sea  : 
The  boatmen  rest  their  oars  and  say, 

Miserere  Domine !  [A  long  pau^e. 

ORDONIO. 

The  innocent  obey  nor  charm  nor  spell ! 
My  brother  is  in  heaven.     Thou  sainted  spirit, 
Burst  on  our  sight,  a  passing  visitant ! 
Once  more  to  hear  thy  voice,  once  more  to  see  thee : 
O  'twere  a  joy  to  me  ! 

ALVAR. 
A  joy  to  thee ! 

What  if  thou  heard'st  him  now  ? .  What  if  his  spirit 
Re-entered  its  cold  corse,  and  came  upon  thee 
With  many  a  stab  from  many  a  murderer's  poinard  ? 
What  if  (his  steadfast  Eye  still  beaming  Pity 
And  Brother's  love)  he  turned  his  head  aside, 
Lest  he  should  look  at  thee,  and  with  one  look 
Hurl  thee  beyond  all  power  of  Penitence  ? 

VALDEZ. 
These  ar«  unholy  fancies  ! 

ORDONIO.  (struggling  with  his  feelings.) 

Yes,  my  father, 
He  is  in  Heaven  1 


REMORSE.  345 


ALVAR.  (still  to  Ordonio.) 
But  what  if  he  had  a  brother, 
Who  had  lived  even  so,  that  at  his  dying  hour, 
The  name  of  Heaven  would  have  convulsed  his  face, 
More  than  the  death-pang  ? 

VALDEZ. 

Idly  prating  man ! 

Thou  hast  guessed  ill :  Don  Alvar's  only  brother 
Stands  here  before  thee — a  father's  blessing  on  him  1 
He  is  most  virtuous. 

ALVAR.  (still  to  Ordonio.) 
What,  if  his  very  virtues 

Had  pampered  his  swoln  heart  and  made  him  proud  ? 
And  what  if  Pride  had  duped  him  into  guilt  ? 
Yet  still  he  stalked  a  self -created  God, 
Not  very  bold,  but  exquisitely  cunning  ; 
And  one  that  at  his  Mother's  looking-glass 
Would  force  his  features  to  a  frowning  sternness  ? 
Young  Lord  !     I  tell  thee  that  there  are  such  Beings — 
Yea,  and  it  gives  fierce  merriment  to  the  damned 
To  see  these  most  proud  men,  that  loathe  mankind, 
At  every  stir  and  buzz  of  coward  conscience, 
Trick,  cant,  and  lie,  most  whining  hypocrites  ! 
Away,  away !     Now  let  me  hear  more  music.  [ Music  again. 

TERESA. 

'Tis  strange,  I  tremble  at  my  own  conjectures  ! 
But  whatsoe'er  it  mean,  I  dare  no  longer 
Be  present  at  these  lawless  mysteries, 
This  dark  Provoking  of  the  Hidden  Powers ! 
Already  I  affront — if  not  high  Heaven — 
Yet  Alvar's  Memory  ! — Hark  !  I  make  appeal 
Against  the  unholy  rite,  and  hasten  hence 
To  bend  before  a  lawful  Shrine,  and  seek 
That  voice  which  whispers,  when  the  still  Heart  listens, 
Comfort  and  faithful  Hope  !     Let  us  retire. 

ALVAR.  (to  Teresa  anxiously.) 
O  full  of  faith  and  guileless  love .  thy  Spirit 
Still  prompts  thee  wisely.     Let  the  pangs  of  guilt 
Surprise  the  guilty  :  thou  art  innocent ! 

[Exeunt  Teresa  and  Attendant. 
(Music  as  before.} 
The  spell  is  muttered — Come,  thou  wandering  Shape, 


346  COLERIDGE 'S  POEMS. 

Who  own'st  no  Master  in  a  human  eye, 
Whate'er  be  this  man's  doom,  fair  be  it,  or  foul, 
If  he  be  dead,  O  come  !  and  bring  with  thee 
That  which  he  grasped  in  death.     But  if  he  live, 
Some  token  of  his  obscure  perilous  life. 

[The  whole  Music  clashes  into  a  Chorus. 

CHORUS. 

Wandering  Demons  hear  the  spell ! 

Lest  a  blacker  charm  compel — 

[The  incense  on  the  altar  takes  fire  suddenly,  and  an  illumi- 
nated picture  of  Alvar's  assassination  is  discovered,  and 
having  remained  a  few  seconds  is  then  hidden  by  ascend- 
ing flames. 

ORDONTO.  (starting  in  great  agitation.) 
Duped  !  duped  !  duped  ! — the  traitor  Isidore  ! 

[At  this  instant  the  doors  are  forced  open,  Monviedro  and  the 
familiars  of  the  Inquisition,  servants,  &c.,  enter  and  fill 
the  stage. 

MONVIEDRO. 

First  seize  the  sorcerer !  suffer  him  not  to  speak ! 
The  holy  judges  of  the  Inquisition 

Shall  hear  his  first  words. — Look  you  pale,  Lord  Valdez  ? 
Plain  evidence  have  we  here  of  most  foul  sorcery 
There  is  a  dungeon  underneath  this  castle, 
And  as  you  hope  for  mild  interpretation, 
Surrender  instantly  the  keys  and  charge  of  it. 

ORDONIO.  (recovering  himself  as  from  stupor,  to  servants.) 
Why  haste  you  not  ?    Off  with  him  to  the  dungeon  ! 

[All  rush  out  in  tumult. 


SCENE  II. 

Interior  of  a  Chapel,  with  painted  Windows. 

Enter  TERESA. 

When  first  I  entered  this  pure  spot,  forebodings 
Pressed  heavy  on  my  heart :  but  as  I  knelt, 
Such  calm  unwonted  bliss  possessed  my  spirit, 
A  trance  so  cloudless,  that  those  sounds,  hard  by 
Of  trampling  uproar  fell  upon  mine  ear 
As  alien  and  unnoticed  as  the  rain-storm 


REMORSE.  347 


Beatn  on  the  roof  of  some  fair  banquet-room, 
While  sweetest  melodies  are  warbling 

Enter  VALDEZ. 

VALDEZ. 

Ye  pitying  saints,  forgive  a  father's  blindness, 
And  extricate  us  from  this  net  of  peril  ? 

TERESA. 
Who  wakes  anew  my  fears,  and  speaks  of  peril  ? 

VALDEZ. 

O  best  Teresa,  wisely  wert  thou  prompted  ! 
This  was  no  feat  of  mortal  agency  ! 
That  picture — Oh,  that  picture  tells  me  all ! 
With  a  flash  of  light  it  came,  in  flames  it  vanished, 
Self-kindled,  self-consumed  :  bright  as  thy  Life, 
Sudden  and  unexpected  as  thy  Fate, 
Alvar  1     My  Son  !     My  Son  !— The  Inquisitor— 

TERESA. 
Torture  me  not !     But  Alvar — Oh,  of  Alvar  ? 

VALDEZ. 

flow  often  would  He  plead  for  these  Morescoes  ! 
The  brood  accurst !  remorseless,  coward  murderers  I 

TERESA,  (wildly.) 
So  ?  so  ? — I  comprehend  you — he  is 

VALDEZ.  (with  averted  countenance.) 

He  is  no  more  ! 

TERESA. 

O  sorrow  !  that  a  Father's  Voice  should  say  this, 
A  Father's  Heart  believe  it ! 

VALDEZ. 
A  worse  sorrow 
Are  Fancy's  wild  Hopes  to  a  heart  despairing  1 

TERESA. 

These  rays  that  slant  in  through  those  gorgeous  windows, 
From  yon  bright  orb — though  colored  as  they  pass, 
Are  they  not  Light  ? — Even  so  that  voice,  Lord  Valdez  ! 
Which  whispers  to  my  soul,  though  haply  varied 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


By  many  a  Fancy,  many  a  wishful  Hope, 
Speaks  yet  the  Truth  :  and  Alvar  lives  for  me  ! 

VALDEZ. 

Yes,  for  three  wasting  years,  thus  and  no  other, 
He  has  lived  for  thee  —  a  spirit  for  thy  spirit  ! 
My  child,  we  must  riot  give  religious  faith 
To  every  voice  that  makes  the  heart  a  listener 
To  its  own  wish. 

TERESA. 

I  breathed  to  the  Unerring 

Permitted  prayers.     Must  those  remain  unanswered, 
Yet  impious  Sorcery,  that  holds  no  commune 
Save  with  the  lying  spirit,  claim  belief? 

VALDEZ. 

O  not  to-day,  not  now  for  the  first  time 
Was  Alvar  lost  to  thee  — 

[turning  off,  aloud,  but  yet  as  to  himself. 

Accurst  assassin  ! 

Disarmed,  o'erpowered,  despairing  of  defence, 
At  his  bared  breast  he  seemed  to  grasp  some  relict 
More  dear  than  was  his  life  --- 

TERESA,  (with  faint  shriek.) 

O  Heavens  !  my  portrait  I 
And  he  did  grasp  it  in  his  death  pang  ! 

Off,  false  Demon, 
That  beat'st  thy  black  wings  close  above  my  head  ! 

\0rdonio  enters  with  the  keys  of  the  dungeon  in  his  hand. 
Hush  !  who  comes  here  ?    The  wizard  Moor's  employer  ! 
Moors  were  his  murderers,  you  say  ?     Saints  shield  us 
From  wicked  thoughts  - 

[  Valdez  moves  towards  the  back  of  the  stage  to  meet  Ordonio, 
and  during  the  concluding  lines  of  Teresa's  speech  ap- 
pears as  eagerly  conversing  with  him. 

Is  Alvar  dead  ?  what  then  ? 
The  nuptial  rites  and  funeral  shall  be  one  ! 
Here's  no  abiding-place  for  thee,  Teresa.  — 
Away  !  they  see  me  not  —  Thou  seest  me,  Alvar  ! 
To  thee  I  bend  my  course.  —  But  first  one  question, 
One  question  to  Ordonio.  —  My  limbs  tremble  — 
There  I  may  sit  unmarked  —  a  moment  will  restore  me. 

[Retires  out  of  sight 


REMORSE.  349 


ORDONIO.  (as  he  advances  with  Valdez.) 
These  are  the  dungeon  keys.     Monviedro  knew  not 
That  I  too  had  received  the  wizard's  message, 
'  He  that  can  bring  the  dead  to  life  again.' 
Bat  now  he  is  satisfied,  I  planned  this  scheme 
To  work  a  full  conviction  on  the  culprit, 
And  he  entrusts  him  wholly  to  my  keeping. 

VALDEZ. 

Tis  well,  my  son  !     But  have  you  yet  discovered 
(Where  is  Teresa  ?)  what  those  speeches  meant — 
Pride,  and  Hypocrisy,  and  Guilt,  and  Cunning  ? 
Then  when  the  wizard  fixed  his  eye  on  you, 
And  you,  I  know  not  why,  looked  pale  and  trembled 
Why — why,  what  ails  you  now  ? — 

ORDONIO.  (confused.} 

Me  ?  what  ails  me  ? 

A  pricking  of  the  blood — It  might  have  happened 
At  aify  other  time. — Why  scan  you  me  ? 

VALDEZ. 

His  speech  about  the  corse,  and  stabs  and  murderers, 
Bore  reference  to  the  assassins 

ORDONIO. 

Duped  I  duped  "  clupod ! 
The  traitor,  Isidore  C  [ A  pawe>:  ShcR.  Wildly, 

I  tell  thee,  my  dear  father ! 
I  am  most  glad  of  this. 

VALDEZ.  (confused.) 
True — Sorcery 

Merits  its  doom  ;  and  this  perchance  may  guide  us 
To  the  discovery  of  the  murderers. 
I  have  their  statures  and  their  several  faces 
So  present  to  me,  that  but  once  to  meet  them 
Would  be  to  recognize. 

ORDONIO. 

Yes !  yes  !  we  recognize  them. 
I  was  benumbed,  and  staggered  up  and  down 
Through  darkness  without  light — dark — dark — dark ! 
My  flesh  crept  chill,  my  limbs  felt  manacled, 
As  had  a  snake  coiled  round  them  ! — Now  'tis  sunshine, 
And  the  blood  dances  freely  through  its  channels  ! 

[Turns  off  abruptly  ;  then  to  himself. 


35°  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

This  is  my  virtuous,  grateful  Isidore  ! 

[Then  mimicking  Isidore's  manner  and  voice. 
1  A  common  trick  of  gratitude,  my  lord  1  ' 
Old  Gratitude  !  a  dagger  would  dissect 
His  '  own  full  heart ' — 'twere  good  to  see  its  color. 

VALDEZ. 

These  magic  sights  !     O  that  I  ne'er  had  yielded 
To  your  entreaties  !     Neither  had  I  yielded, 
But  that  in  spite  of  your  own  seeming  faith 
I  held  it  for  some  innocent  stratagem, 
Which  Love  had  prompted,  to  remove  the  doubts 
Of  wild  Teresa — by  fancies  quelling  fancies  ! 

ORDONIO.  (in  a  slow  voice,  as  reasoning  to  himself.) 
Love  1  Love !  and  then  we  hate  !  and  what  ?  and  wherefore  ? 
Hatred  and  Love  !  Fancies  opposed  by  fancies ! 
What  ?  if  one  reptile  sting  another  reptile, 
Where  is  the  crime  ?    The  goodly  face  of  nature 
Hath  one  disfeaturing  stain  the  less  upon  it.  * 

Are  we  not  all  predestined  Transiency, 
And  cold  Dishonor  ?    Grant  it,  that  this  hand 
Had  given  a  morsel  to  the  hungry  worms 
Somewhat  too  early — Where's  the  crime  of  this  ? 
That  this  must  needs  bring  on  the  idiotcy 
Of  moist-eyed  Penitence — 'tis  like  a  dream  1 

VALDEZ. 

Wild  talk,  my  son !     But  thy  excess  of  feeling 

[averting  himself. 
Almost  I  fear,  it  hath  unhinged  his  brain. 

ORDOXIO.    (now  in  soliloquy,  and  now  addressing  his  father. 

and  Just  after  the  speech  has  commenced,  Teresa  reappears 

and  advances  slowly.) 
Say,  I  had  laid  a  body  in  the  sun ! 
Well,  in  a  month  there  swarm  forth  from  the  corse 
A  thousand,  nay,  ten  thousand  sentient  beings 
In  place  of  that  one  man.— Say,  I  had  killed  him  ! 

[Teresa  starts  and  stops  listening. 
Yet  who  shall  tell  me,  that  each  one  and  all 
Of  these  ten  thousand  lives  is  not  as  happy, 
And  that  one  life,  which  being  pushed  aside, 
Made  room  for  these  unnumbered 

VALDEZ. 

0  mere  madness ! 


REMORSE.  351 


[Teresa  moves  hastily  forwards,  and  places  herself  directly 
before  Ordonio. 

ORDONIO.  (checking  the  feeling  of  surprise  and  forcing  his  tones 

into  an  expression  of  playful  courtesy.) 
Teresa  ?  or  the  Phantom  of  Teresa  ? 

TERESA. 

Alas  !  the  Phantom  only,  if  in  truth 
The  substance  of  her  Being,  her  Life's  life, 
Have  ta'en  its  flight  through  Alvar's  death-wound — 

( A  pause.)  Where — 

(Even  coward  Murder  grants  the  dead  a  grave) 
O  tell  me,  Valdez  ! — answer  me,  Ordonio  ! 
Where  lies  the  corse  of  my  betrothed  husband  ? 

ORDONIO. 

There,  where  Ordonio  likewise  would  fain  lie  ! 
In  the  sleep-compelling  earth,  in  unpierced  darkness  ! 
For  while  we  LIVE — 
An  inward  day  that  never,  never  sets, 
Glares  round  the  soul,  and  mocks  the  closing  eyelids  ! 
Over  his  rocky  grave  the  Fir-grove  sighs 
A  lulling  ceaseless  dirge !     'Tis  well  with  HIM. 

[Strides  off  in  agitation  towards  the  altar,  but  returns  as 
Valdez  is  speaking.) 

TERESA,   (recoiling  with  the  expression  appropriate  to  the  pas- 
sion.) 
The  rock  !  the  fir-grove  !  [To  Valdez. 

Didst  thou  hear  him  say  it  ? 
Hush  !  I  will  ask  him  ! 

VALDEZ. 

Urge  him  not — not  now  ! 
This  we  beheld.     Nor  he  nor  I  know  more, 
Than  what  the  magic  imagery  revealed. 
The  assassin,  who  pressed  foremost  of  the  three 

ORDONIO. 

A  tender-hearted,  scrupulous,  grateful  villain, 
Whom  I  will  strangle  ! 

VALDEZ.  (looking  with  anxious  disquiet  at  his  Son,  yet  attempt' 
ing  to  proceed  with  his  description.)    • 

While  his  two  companions 

ORDONIO. 
Dead  1  dead  already  !  what  care  we  for  the  dead  ? 


3  5  2  COLERIDGE 'S  POEMS. 

VALDEZ.  (to  Teresa.) 

Pity  him  !  sooth  him  !  disenchant  his  spirit ! 
These  supernatural  shows,  this  strange  disclosure, 
And  this  too  fond  affection,  which  still  broods 
O'er  Alvar's  Fate,  and  still  burns  to  avenge  it — 
These,  struggling  with  his  hopeless  love  for  you, 
Distemper  him,  and  give  reality 
To  the  creatures  of  his  fancy. 

ORDONIO. 

Is  it  so  ? 

Yes  !  yes  !  even  like  a  child,  that  too  abruptly 
Roused  by  a  glare  of  light  from  deepest  sleep 
Starts  up  bewildered  and  talks  idly. 

( Then  mysteriously.)  Father  ! 

What  if  the  Moors  that  made  my  brother's  grave, 
Even  now  were  digging  ours  ?     What  if  the  bolt, 
Though  aimed,  I  doubt  not,  at  the  son  of  Valdez, 
Yet  missed  its  true  aim  when  it  fell  on  Alvar  ? 

VALDEZ. 

Alvar  ne'er  fought  against  the  Moors, — say  rather, 
He  was  their  advocate  ;  but  you  had  marched 
With  fire  and  desolation  through  their  villages. — 
Yet  he  by  chance  was  captured. 

ORDONIO. 

Unknown,  perhaps, 

Captured,  yet,  as  the  son  of  Valdez,  murdered. 
Leave  all  to  me.    Nay,  whither,  gentle  lady  ? 

VALDEZ. 
What  seek  you  now  ? 

TERESA. 
A  better,  surer  light 

To  guide  me 

Both  VALDEZ  and  ORDONTO. 
Whither  ? 

TERESA. 

To  the  only  place 

Where  life  yet  dwells  for  me,  and  ease  of  heart. 
These  walls  seem  threatening  to  fall  in  upon  m«  ! 
Detain  me  not !  a  dim  power  drives  me  hence, 
And  that  will  be  my  guide. 


REMORSE.  353 


VALDEZ. 

To  find  a  lover  ! 
Suits  that  a  high  born  maiden's  modesty  ? 

0  folly  and  shame  !     Tempt  not  iny  rage,  Teresa! 

TERESA. 

Hopeless,  I  fear  no  human  being's  rage. 
And  am  I  hastening  to  the  arms O  Heaven ! 

1  haste  but  to  the  grave  of  iny  beloved  ! 

[Exit,  Valdez  following  after  her. 

ORDONIO. 

This,  then,  is  my  reward  !  and  I  must  love  her? 
Scorned  !  shuddered  at !  yet  love  her  still  ?  yes!  yes ! 
By  the  deep  feelings  of  Revenge  and  Hate 
I  will  still  love  her — woo  her — win  her  too  ! 
(a  pause)  Isidore  safe  and  silent,  and  the  portrait 
Found  on  the  wizard — he,  belike,  self-poisoned 

To  escape  the  crueller  flames My  soul  shouts  triumph  ! 

The  mine  is  undermined  !    Blood  !   Blood  !   Blood ! 

They  thirst  for  thy  blood  !  thy  blood,  Ordonio  !  [a  paute* 

The  Hunt  is  up  !  and  in  the  midnight  Avood 

With  lights  to  dazzle  and  with  nets  they  seek 

A  timid  prey  :  and  lo  !  the  tiger's  eye 

Glares  in  the  red  flame  of  his  hunter's  torch  ! 

To  Isidore  I  will  dispatch  a  message, 

And  lure  him  to  the  cavern  !  ay,  that  cavern  ! 

He  cannot  fail  to  find  it.     Thither  I'll  lure  him 

Whence  he  shall  never,  never  more  return ! 

[Looks  through  the  side  window. 
A  rim  of  the  sun  lies  yet  upon  the  sea, 
And  now  'tis  gone  I    All  shall  be  done  to-night.  [Exit. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  I. 

A  cavern,  dark,  except  where  a  gleam  of  moonlight  is  seen  on  one 
side  at  the  further  end  of  it  ;  supposed  to  be  cast  on  it  from  a 
crevice  in  a  part  of  the  cavern  out  of  sight.  Isidore  alone,  an 
extinguished  torch  in  his  hand. 

ISIDORE. 

Faith  'twas  a  moving  letter — very  moving  I 
'  His  life  in  danger,  no  place  safe  but  this  1 
'Twos  his  turn  now  to  talk  of  gratitude.' 

23 


354  COLER7DGE'S  POEMS. 


And  yet  —  but  no !  there  can't  be  such  a  villain. 
It  cannot  be ! 

Thanks  to  that  little  crevice, 

Which  lets  the  moonlight  in  !     I'll  go  and  sit  by  it. 
To  peep  at  a  tree,  or  see  a  he-goat's  beard, 
Or  hear  a  cow  or  two  breathe  loud  in  their  sleep  — 
Anything  but  this  crash  of  water  drops  ! 
These  dull  abortive  sounds  that  fret  the  silence 
With  puny  thwartings  and  mock  opposition  ! 
So  beats  the  death-watch  to  a  sick  man's  ear. 

[He  goes  out  of  sight,  opposite  to  the  patch  of  moonlight:  re* 

turns  after  a  minute's  elapse,  in  an  ecstacy  of  fear. 
A  hellish  pit  !    The  very  same  I  dreamt  of  ! 
I  was  just  in — and  those  damned  fingers  of  ice 
Which  clutched  my  hair  up  1   Ha  ! — what's  that — it  moved. 

[Isidore  stands  staring  at  another  recess  in  the  cavern-    In 

the  mean  time  Ordonio  enters  with  a  torch,  and  halloos 

to  Isidore. 

ISIDORE. 
I  swear  that  I  saw  something  moving  there  1 

The  moonshine  came  and  went  like  a  flash  of  lightning 

I  swear,  I  saw  it  move. 

ORDONIO.  (goes  into  the  recess,  then  returns,  and  with  great  scorn.) 

A  jutting  clay  stone 

Props  on  the  long  lank  weed,  that  grows  beneath : 
And  the  weed  nods  and  drips. 

ISIDORE,  (forcing  a  laugh  faintly.) 
A  jest  to  laugh  at ! 
It  was  not  that  which  scared  me,  good,  iny  lord. 

ORDONIO. 
What  scared  you,  then  ? 

ISIDORE. 

You  see  that  little  rift  ? 
But  first  permit  me ! 

[Lights  his  torch  at  Ordonio's,  and  while  lighting  it, 

(A  lighted  torch  in  the  hand, 
Is  no  unpleasant  object  here — one's  breath 
Floats  round  the  flame,  and  makes  as  many  colors 
As  the  thin  clouds  that  travel  near  the  moon.) 
You  see  that  crevice  there  ? 
My  torch  extinguished  by  these  water  drops, 
And  marking  that  the  moonlight  came  from  thence, 
I  stept  in  to  it,  meaning  to  sit  there ; 
But  scarcely  had  I  measured  twenty  paces — 


REMORSE. 


My  body  bending  forward,  yea,  o'erbalanced 
Almost  beyond  recoil,  on  the  dim  brink 
Of  a  huge  chasm  I  stept.     The  shadowy  moonshine 
Filling  the  Void  so  counterfeited  Substance, 
That  my  foot  hung  aslant  adown  the  edge. 
Was  it  my  own  fear  ? 

Fear  too  hath  its  instincts  ! 
(And  yet  such  dens  as  these  are  wildly  told  of, 
And  there  are  Beings  that  live,  yet  not  for  the  eye) 
And  arm  of  frost  above  and  from  behind  me 
Plucked  up  and  snatched  me  backward.     Merciful  Heaven  I 
You  smile  !  alas,  even  smiles  look  ghastly  here  I 
My  lord,  I  pray  you  go  yourself  and  view  it.  ' 

ORDONIO. 
It  umst  have  shot  some  pleasant  feelings  through  you. 

ISIDORE. 

If  every  atom  of  a  dead  man's  flesh 
Should  creep,  each  one  with  a  particular  life, 
Yet  all  as  cold  as  ever — 'twas  just  so ! 
Or  had  it  drizzled  needle  points  of  frost 
Upon  a  feverish  head  made  suddenly  bald — 

ORDONIO.  (interrupting  him.) 

Why,  Isidore. 

I  blush  for  thy  cowardice.     It  might  have  startled, 
I  grant  you,  even  a  brave  man  for  a  moment — 
But  such  a  panic — 

ISIDORE. 

When  a  boy,  my  lord  ! 

I  could  have  sate  whole  hours  beside  that  chasm, 
Pushed  in  huge  stones  and  heard  them  strike  and  rattle 
Against  its  horrid  sides :  then  hung  my  head 
Low  down,  and  listened  till  the  heavy  fragments 
Sank  with  faint  crash  in  that  still  groaning  well, 
Which  never  thirsty  pilgrim  blest,  which  never 
A  living  thing  came  near — unless,  perchance, 
Some  blind-worm  battens  on  the  ropy  mould 
Close  at  its  edge. 

ORDONIO. 
Art  thou  more  coward  now  ? 

ISIDORE. 

Call  him  that  fears  his  fellow-man  a  coward  1 
I  fear  not  man — but  this  inhuman  cavern, 


356  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

It  were  too  bad  a  prison-house  for  goblins. 
Beside  (you'll  smile,  iny  lord),  but  true  it  is, 
My  last  night's  sleep  was  very  sorely  haunted 
By  what  had  passed  between  us  in  the  morning. 

0  sleep  of  horrors  !     Now  run  down  and  stared  at 
By  Forms  so  hideous  that  they  mock  remembrance — 
Now  seeing  nothing  and  imagining  nothing, 

But  only  being  afraid—  stifled  with  Fear ! 

While  every  goodly  or  familiar  form 

Had  a  strange  power  of  breathing  terror  round  me ! 

1  saw  you  in  a  thousand  feaiful  shapes  ; 
And,  I  entreat  your  lordship  to  believe  me, 
In  my  last  dream 

ORDONIO. 
Well? 

ISIDORE. 

I  was  in  the  act 

Of  falling  down  that  chasm,  when  Alhadra 
Waked  me  :  she  heard  my  heart  beat. 

OBDONIO. 

Strange  enough  I 
Had  you  been  here  before  ? 

ISIDORE. 

Never,  my  lord ! 

But  mine  eyes  do  not  see  it  now  more  clearly, 
Than  in  my  dream  I  saw — that  very  chasm. 

ORDONIO.  (stands  lost  in  thought,  then  after  a  pause.) 
I  know  not  why  it  should  be  !  yet  it  is— 

ISIDORE. 
What  is,  my  lord  ? 

ORDONIO. 

Abhorrent  from  our  nature, 
To  kill  a  man. — 

ISIDORE. 
Except  in  self-defence. 

ORDONIO. 

Why  that's  my  case  ;  and  yet  the  soul  recoils  from  it — 
'  Fis  so  with  me  at  least.     But  you,  perhaps, 
Have  sterner  feelings  ? 


REMORSE. 


ISIDORE. 

Something  troubles  you. 

How  shall  I  serve  you  ?     By  the  life  you  gave  me, 

By  all  that  makes  that  life  of  value  to  me, 

My  wife,  my  babes,  my  honor,  I  swear  to  you, 

Name  it,  and  I  will  toil  to  do  the  thing, 

If  it  be  innocent !     But  this,  my  lord  ! 

Is  not  a  place  where  you  could  perpetrate 

No,  not  propose,  a  wicked  thing.     The  Darkness, 

When  ten  strides  off  we  know  'tis  cheerful  moonlight, 

CoLbcts  the  guilt,  and  crowds  it  round  the  heart. 

It  must  be  innocent. 

[Ordonio  darkly,  and  in  the  feeling  of  self-justification,  tells 
what  he  conceives  of  his  own  character  and  actions,  speak- 
ing of  himself  in  the  third  person. 

ORDONIO. 

Thyself  be  judge. 
One  of  our  family  knew  this  place  well. 

ISIDORE. 
Who  ?  when  ?  my  lord  ? 

ORDONIO. 

What  boots  it  who  or  when  ? 

Hang  up  thy  torch— I'll  tell  his  tale  to  thee. 

[They  hang  up  their  torches  on  some  ridpe  in  the  cavern. 
He  was  a  man  different  from  other  men, 
And  he  despised  them,  yet  revered  himself. 

ISIDORE,  (aside.) 

He  ?  He  despised  ?    Thou'rt  speaking  of  thyself  ! 

I  am  on  my  guard,  however  :  no  surprise.  [Then  to  Ordonio. 

What,  he  was  mad  ? 

ORDONIO. 

All  men  seemed  mad  to  him ! 
Nature  had  made  him  for  some  other  planet, 
And  pressed  his  soul  into  a  human  shape 
By  accident  or  malice.     In  this  world 
He  found  no  fit  companion. 

ISIDORE. 

Of  himself  he  speaks.  [aside. 

Alas  !  poor  wretch  ! 
Mad  men  are  mostly  proud . 


COLERTDG&S  POEMS. 


ORDONIO. 

He  walked  alone, 

And  phantom  thoughts  unsought-for  troubled  him. 
Something  within  would  still  be  shadowing  out 
All  possibilities  ;  and  with  these  shadows 
His  mind  held  dalliance.     Once,  as  so  it  happened, 
A  fancy  crossed  him  wilder  than  the  rest  : 
To  this  in  moody  murmur  and  low  voice 
He  yielded  utterance,  as  some  talk  in  sleep  : 
The  man  who  heard  him.  — 

Why  didst  thou  look  round  ?  — 

ISIDORE. 

I  have  a  prattler  three  years  old,  my  lord  ! 
In  truth  he  is  my  darling.     As  I  went 
From  forth  my  door,  he  made  a  moan  in  sleep  — 
But  I  am  talking  idly  —  pray  proceed  ! 
Arid  what  did  this  man  ? 

ORDONIO. 

With  his  human  hand 
He  gave  a  substance  and  reality 
To  that  wild  fancy  of  a  possible  thing.  — 
Well  it  was  done  !  [then  very  wildly. 

Why  babblest  thou  of  guilt  ? 
The  deed  was  done,  and  it  passed  fairly  off. 
And  he  whose  tale  I  tell  thee—  dost  thou  listen  ? 

ISIDORE. 

I  would,  my  lord,  you  were  by  my  fire-side, 
I'd  listen  to  you  with  an  eager  eye, 
Though  you  began  this  cloudy  tale  at  midnight  : 
But  I  do  listen  —  pray  proceed,  my  lord. 

ORDONIO. 

Where  was  I  ? 
ISIDORE. 
He  of  whom  you  tell  the  tale  — 

ORDONIO. 

Surveying  all  things  with  a  quiet  scorn, 
Tamed  himself  down  to  living  purposes, 
The  occupations  and  the  semblances 
Of  ordinary  men  —  and  such  he  seemed  I 
But  that  same  ever  ready  agent  —  he  — 


REMORSE.  359 


ISIDORE. 
Ah  I  what  of  him,  my  lord  ? 

ORDONIO. 

He  proved  a  traitor, 

Betrayed  the  mystery  to  a  brother  traitor, 
And  they  between  them  hatched  a  damned  plot 
To  hunt  him  down  to  infamy  and  death. 
What  did  the  Valdez  ?     I  am  proud  of  the  name 
Since  he  dared  do  it — 

[Ordonio  grasps  Ms  sword,  and  turns  off  from  Isidore,  then 
after  a  pause  returns. 

Our  links  burn  dimly. 

ISIDORE. 

A  dark  tale  darkly  finished !  Nay,  my  lord ! 
Tell  what  he  did. 

ORDONIO. 

That  which  his  wisdom  prompted — 
He  made  the  Traitor  meet  him  in  this  cavern, 
And  here  he  killed  the  Traitor. 

ISIDORE. 

No!  the  fool! 

He  had  not  wit  enough  to  be  a  traitor. 
Poor  thick-eyed  beetle  !  not  to  have  foreseen 
That  he  who  gulled  thee  with  a  whimpered  lie 
To  murder  his  own  brother,  would  not  scruple 
To  murder  thee,  if  e'er  his  guilt  grew  jealous, 
And  he  could  steal  upon  thee  in  the  dark  I 

ORDONIO. 
Thou  would'st  mot  then  have  come,  if — 

ISIDORE. 
Oh  yes,  my  lord  ! 
1  would  have  met  him  armed,  and  scared  the  coward. 

[Isidore  throws  off  his  robe  ;  shows  himself  armed  and  dratot 
his  sword. 

ORDONIO. 

Now  this  i?  excellent  and  warms  the  blood ! 
My  heart  was  drawing  back,  drawing  me  back 
With  weak  and  womanish  scruples.     Now  my  Vengeance 
Beckons  rne  onwards  with  a  Warrior's  mien, 
And  claims  that  life,  my  pity  robbed  her  of — 


36°  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


Now  will  I  kill  thee,  thankless  slave,  and  count  it 
Among  my  comfortable  thoughts  hereafter. 

ISIDORE.  • 

And  all  my  little  ones  fatherless — 

Die  thou  first. 

[They  fight,  Ordonio  disarms  Isidore,  and  in  disarming  him 
throws  his  sword  up  that  recess  opposite  to  which  they  were 
standing.  Isidore  hurries  into  the  recess  with  his  torch 
Ordonio  follows  him  ;  a  loud  cry  of  '  Traitor !  Monster  I  • 
is  heard  from  the  cavern,  and  in  a  moment  Ordonio  return- 
alone. 

ORDONIO. 

I  have  hurled  him  down  the  Chasm  !     Treason  for  Treason. 
He  dreamt  of  it :  henceforward  let  him  sleep, 
A  dreamless  sleep,  from  which  no  wife  can  wake  him. 
His  dream  too  is  made  out — Now  for  his  friend.         [Exil  Ordonu. 

SCENE    II.* 

The  Interior  Court  of  a  Saracenic  or  Gothic  Castle,  with  the  Iron 
Gate  of  Dungeon  visible. 

TERESA. 

Heart-chilling  Superstition  !  thou  canst  glaze 
Ev'n  Pity's  eye  with  her  own  frozen  tear. 
In  vain  I  urge  the  tortures  that  await  him  ; 
Even  Selma,  reverend  guardian  of  my  childhood, 
My  second  mother,  shuts  her  heart  against  me  ! 
Well,  I  have  won  from  her  what  most  imports 
The  present  need,  this  secret  of  the  dungeon 
Known  only  to  herself. — A  Moor  !  a  Sorcerer  ! 
No,  I  have  faith,  that  nature  ne'er  permitted 
Baseness  to  wear  a  form  so  noble.     True, 
I  doubt  not,  that  Ordonio  had  suborned  him 
To  act  some  part  in  some  unholy  fraud  ; 
As  little  doubt,  that  for  some  unknown  purpose 
He  hath  baffled  his  suborner,  terror-struck  him, 
And  that  Ordonio  meditates  revenge  ! 
Hut  my  resolve  is  fixed  ;  myself  will  rescue  him, 
And  learn  if  haply  he  know  aught  of  Alvar. 
Enter  VALDEZ. 

VALDEZ. 
Still  sad  ?— and  gazing  at  the  massive  door 

Of  that  fell  Dungeon  which  thou  ne'er  hadst  sight  of, 

*  Vide  Appendix. 


REMORSE.  36 » 


Save  what,  perchance,  thy  infant  fancy  shaped  it 

When  the  nurse  stilled  thy  cries  with  unmeant  threats. 

Now  by  my  faith,  Girl !  this  same  wizard  haunts  thee  ! 

A  stately  man,  and  eloquent  and  tender —  [with  a  sneer. 

Who  then  need  wonder  if  a  lady  sighs 

Even  at  the  thought  of  what  these  stern  Dominicans — 

TERESA,  (with  solemn  indignation.) 
The  horror  of  their  ghastly  punishments 
Doth  so  o'ertop  the  height  of  all  compassion, 
That  I  should  feel  too  little  for  mine  enemy, 
If  it  were  possible  I  could  feel  more, 
Even  though  the  dearest  inmates  of  our  household 
Were  doomed  to  suffer  them.     That  such  things  are— 

VALDEZ. 
Hush  !  thoughtless  woman  ! 

TERESA. 

Nay,  it  wakes  within  me 
More  than  a  woman's  spirit. 

VALDEZ. 

No  more  of  this — 

What  if  Monviedro  or  his  creatures  hear  us  ! 
1  dare  not  listen  to  you. 

TERESA. 

My  honored  lord, 

These  were  my  Alvar's  lessons,  and  whene'er 
I  bend  me  o'er  his  portrait,  I  repeat  them, 
As  if  to  give  a  voice  to  the  mute  Image. 

VALDEZ. 

We  have  mourned  for  Alvar. 

Of  his  sad  fate  there  now  remains  no  doubt. 
Have  I  no  other  son  ? 

TERESA. 

Speak  not  of  him  ! 

That  low  imposture  !     That  mysterious  picture  I 
If  this  be  madness,  must  I  wed  a  madman  ? 
And  if  not  madness,  there  is  mystery, 
And  guilt  doth  lurk  behind  it. 

VALDEZ. 

Is  this  well  ? 
TERESA. 
Yes,  it  is  truth  :  saw  you  his  countenance  ? 


362  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


How  rage,  remorse,  and  scorn,  and  stupid  fear, 
Displaced  each  other  with  swift  interchanges  ? 

0  that  I  had  indeed  the  sorcerer's  power. 

1  would  call  up  before  thine  eyes  the  image 
Of  my  betrothed  Alvar,  of  thy  First-born  ! 
His  own  fair  countenance,  his  kingly  forehead, 
His  tender  smiles,  love's  day-dawn  on  his  lips  ! 
That  spiritual  and  almost  heavenly  light 

In  his  commanding  eye — his  mien  heroic, 
Virtue's  own  native  heraldry  !  to  man 
Genial,  and  pleasant  to  his  guardian  angel. 
Whene'er  he  gladdened,  how  the  gladness  spread 
Wide  round  him  !  and  when  oft  with  swelling  tears, 
Plashed  through  by  indignation,  he  bewailed 
The  wrongs  of  Belgium's  martyred  patriots, 
Oh,  what  a  Grief  was  there — for  Joy  to  envy 
Or  gaze  upon  enamoured  ! 

O  my  father ! 

Recall  that  morning  when  we  knelt  together, 
And  thou  didst  bless  our  loves  !     O  even  now, 
Even  now,  my  sire  !  to  thy  mind's  eye  present  him 
As  at  that  moment  he  rose  up  before  thee, 
Stately,  with  beaming  look !     Place,  place  beside  him 
Ordonio's  dark  perturbed  countenance  ! 
Then  bid  me  (oh,  thou  could'st  not)  bid  me  turn 
From  him,  the  joy,  the  triumph  of  our  kind  ! 
To  take  in  exchange  that  brooding  man,  who  never 
Lifts  up  his  eye  from  the  earth  unless  to  scowl. 

VALDEZ. 

Ungrateful  woman  !     I  have  tried  to  stifle 
An  old  man's  passion  !  was  it  not  enough, 
That  thou  hast  made  my  son  a  restless  man, 
Banished  his  health,  and  half  unhinged  his  reason  ; 
But  that  thou  wilt  insult  him  with  suspicion  ? 
And  toil  to  blast  his  honor  ?     I  am  old, 
A  comfortless  old  man  1 

TERESA. 
O  Grief!  to  hear 
Hateful  entreaties  from  a  voice  we  love  1 

Enter  a  peasant  and  presents  a  letter  to  Valdez. 

VALDEZ.  (reading  it.) 

1  He  dares  not  venture  hither  ! '     Why,  what  can  this  mean  ? 
'  Lest  the  Familiars  of  the  Inquisition, 


REMORSE.  363 


That  watch  around  my  gates,  should  intercept  him ; 

Buv  he  conjures  me,  that  without  delay 

I  hasten  to  him — for  my  own  sake  entreats  me 

To  guard  from  danger  him  I  hold  imprisoned — 

He  will  reveal  a  secret,  the  joy  of  which 

Will  even  outweigh  the  sorrow.' — Why,  what  can  this  be  ? 

Perchance  it  is  some  Moorish  stratagem, 

To  have  in  me  an  hostage  for  his  safety. 

Nay,  that  they  dare  not  ?    Ho  !  collect  my  servants  ! 

I  will  go  thither — let  them  arm  themselves.  [Exit  Valdez, 

TERESA,  (alone.) 

The  moon  is  high  in  heaven,  and  all  is  hushed, 
Yet,  anxious  listener  !  I  have  seemed  to  hear 
A  low  dead  thunder  mutter  through  the  night, 
As  'twere  a  giant  angry  in  his  sleep. 
O  Alvar  !     Alvar  !  that  they  could  return, 
Those  blessed  days  that  imitated  heaven, 
When  we  two  wont  to  talk  at  eventide  ; 
When  we  saw  naught  but  beauty  ;  when  we  heard 
The  voice  of  that  Almighty  One  who  loved  us 
In  every  gale  that  breathed,  and  wave  that  murmured  ! 
O  we  have  listened,  even  till  high-wrought  pleasure 
Hath  half  assumed  the  countenance  of  grief, 
And  the  deep  sigh  seemed  to  heave  up  a  weight 
Of  bliss,  that  pressed  too  heavy  on  the  heart.  [a  pause. 

And  this  majestic  Moor,  seems  he  not  one 
Who  oft  and  long  communing  with  my  Alvar 
Hath  drunk  in  kindred  lustre  from  his  presence, 
And  guides  me  to  him  with  reflected  light? 
What  if  in  yon  dark  dungeon  coward  Treachery 
By  groping  for  him  with  envenomed  poignard — 
Hence,  womanish  fears,  traitors  to  love  and  duty — 
I'll  free  him.  [Exit  Teresa, 

SCENE  III. 

The  mountains  ~by  moonlight.    ALHADBA  alone  in  a  Moorish 

dress. 

ALHADRA. 

Yon  hanging  woods,  that  touched  by  autumn  seem 
As  they  were  blossoming  hues  of  fire  and  gold ; 
The  flower-like  woods'  most  lovely  in  decay, 


364  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


The  many  clouds,  the  sea,  the  rock,  the  sands, 

Lie  in  the  silent  moonshine  ;  and  the  owl, 

(Strange !  very  strange  !)  the  screech-owl  only  wakes  I 

Sole  voice,  sole  eye  of  all  this  world  of  beauty ! 

Unless,  perhaps,  she  sing  her  screeching  song 

To  a  herd  of  wolves,  that  skulk  athirst  for  blood. 

Why  such  a  thing  am  I ! — Where  are  these  men  ? 

I  need  the  sympathy  of  human  faces, 

To  beat  away  this  deep  contempt  for  all  things, 

Which  quencnes  my  revenge.     Oh  !  would  to  Alia, 

The  raven  or  the  sea-mew,  were  appointed 

To  bring  me  food  !  or  rather  that  my  soul 

Could  drink  in  life  from  the  universal  air  ! 

It  were  a  lot  divine  iri  some  small  skiff 

Along  some  Ocean's  boundless  solitude, 

To  float  forever  with  a  careless  course, 

And  think  myself  the  only  Being  alive  ! 

My  children  ! — Isidore's  children  ! — Son  of  Valdez, 

This  hath  new-strung  mine  arm.     Thou  coward  Tyrant ! 

To  stupefy  a  Woman's  Heart  with  anguish, 

Till  she  forgot — even  that  she  was  a  Mother  ! 

[She  fixes  her  eye  on  the  earth.  Then  drop  in  one  after  an- 
other, from  different  parts  of  the  stage,  a  considerable 
number  of  Morescoes,  all  in  Moorish  garments  and  Moor- 
ish armor.  They  form  a  circle  at  a  distance  round  Al- 
hadrcr,  and  remain  silent  till  the  Second  in  command, 
Naomi,  enters,  distinguished  by  hits  dress  and  armor,  and 
by  the  silent  obeisance  paid  to  him  on  his  entrance  by  the 
other  Moors. 

NAOMI. 

Woman  !     May  Alia  and  the  prophet  bless  thee  ! 
We  have  obeyed  thy  call.     Where  is  our  chief? 

And  why  didst  thou  enjoin  these  Moorish  garments  ? 

ALHADRA.  (raising  her  eyes,  and  looking  round  on  the  circle.) 
Warriors  of  Mahomet  !  faithful  in  the  battle  ! 
My  countrymen  !     Come  ye  prepared  to  work 
An  honorable  deed  ?    And  would  ye  work  it 
In  the  slave's  garb  ?     Curse  on  those  Christian  robes  I 
They  are  spell-blasted  :  and  whoever  wears  them, 
His  arm  shrinks  withered,  his  heart  melts  away, 
And  his  bones  soften. 

NAOMI. 
Where  is  Isidore  ? 


REMORSE.  365 


ALHADRA.  (in  a  deep  low  voice.) 
This  night  I  went  forth  from  my  house,  and  left 
His  children  all  asleep  :  and  he  was  living  ! 
And  I  returned  and  found  them  still  asleep, 

But  he  had  perished 

ALL  MORESCOES. 
Perished  ? 

ALHADRA. 

He  had  perished ! 

Sleep  on,  poor  babes  !  not  one  of  you  doth  know 
That  he  is  fatherless — a  desolate  orphan  ! 
Why  should  we  wake  them  ?     Can  an  infant's  arm 
Revenge  his  murder  ? 

ONE  MORESCOE  (to  another.) 
Did  she  say  his  murder  ? 

NAOMI. 
Murder  ?    Not  murdered  ? 

ALHADRA. 
Murdered  by  a  Christian  ! 

[They  all  at  once  draw  their  sabres. 
ALHADRA.  (To  Naomi,  who  advances  from  the  circle.) 
Brother  of  Zagri  !  fling  away  thy  sword  : 
This  is  thy  chieftain's !  [He  steps  forward  to  take  it. 

Dost  thou  dare  receiva  it  ? 
For  I  have  sworn  by  Alia  and  the  Prophet, 
No  tear  shall  dim  these  eyes,  this  woman's  heart 
Shall  heave  no  groan,  till  I  have  seen  that  sword 
Wet  with  the  life-blood  of  the  son  of  Valdez  !  [a  pause. 

Ordonio  was  your  chieftain's  murderer  I 

NAOMI. 
He  dies,  by  Alia  I 

ALL.  (kneeling.) 

By  Alia ! 

ALHADRAo 

Thio  night  your  chieftain  armed  himself. 
And  hurried  from  me.     But  I  followed  him 
At  distance  till  I  saw  him  enter — there  ! 

NAOMI. 

The  carern  ? 


366  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS, 


ALHADRA. 

Yes,  the  mouth  of  yonder  cavern. 
After  a  while  I  saw  the  son  of  Valdez 
Rush  by  with  flaring  torch  :  he  likewise  entered. 
There  was  another  and  a  longer  pause  ; 
And  once,  methought,  I  heard  the  clash  of  swords  ! 
And  soon  the  son  of  Valdez  re-appeared. 
He  flung  his  torch  towards  the  moon  in  sport, 
And  seemed  as  he  were  mirthful !     I  stood  listening, 
Impatient  for  the  footsteps  of  my  husband  ! 

NAOMI. 
Thou  called'st  him  ? 

ALHADRA. 

I  crept  into  the  cavern — 
'Twas  dark  and  very  silent.     (Then  wildly.} 

What  saidst  thou  ? 

No  !  no  !     I  did  not  dare  call,  Isidore, 
Lest  I  should  hear  no  answer  !     A  brief  while, 
Belike,  I  lost  all  thought  and  memory 
Of  that  for  which  I  came  !     After  that  pause, 

0  Heaven  !     I  heard  a  groan,  and  followed  it : 
And  yet  another  groan,  which  guided  me 
Into  a  strange  recess — and  there  was  light, 

A  hideous  light !  his  torch  lay  on  the  ground  ; 
Its  flame  burnt  dimly  o'er  a  chasm's  brink  : 

1  spake  ;  and  whilst  I  spake,  a  feeble  groan 

Came  from  that  chasm  !  it  was  his  last !  his  death-groan  J 

NAOMI. 
Comfort  her,  Alia. 

ALHADRA. 

I  stood  in  unimaginable  trance 
And  agony  that  cannot  be  remembered, 
Listening  with  horrid  hope  to  hear  a  groan  ! 
But  I  had  heard  his  last :  my  husband's  death-groan  ? 

NAOMI. 
Haste!  let  us  onward. 

ALHADRA. 

I  looked  far  down  the  pit — 
My  sight  was  bounded  by  a  jutting  fragment : 
And  it  was  stained  with  blood.    Then  first  I  shrieked, 


REMORSE.  367 


My  eye-balls  burnt,  my  brain  grew  hot  as  fire, 
And  all  the  hanging  drops  of  the  wet  roof 
Turned  into  blood — I  saw  them  turn  to  blood  ! 
And  I  was  leaping  wildly  down  the  chasm, 
When  on  the  farther  brink  I  saw  his  sword, 
And  it  said  Vengeance  ! — Curses  on  my  tongue  ! 
The  moon  hath  moved  in  heaven,  and  I  am  here, 
And  he  hath  not  had  vengeance  !     Isidore  ! 
Spirit  of  Isidore  !  thy  murderer  lives  ! 
Away  !  away  ! 

ALL. 
Away  1  away ! 

[She  rushes  off,  all  following  her* 


ACT  V.— SCENE  I. 

A  Dungeon. 
ALVAR  (alone)  rises  slowly  from  a  bed  of  reeds. 

ALVAR. 

And  this  place  my  forefathers  made  for  man  1 
This  is  the  process  of  our  Love  and  Wisdom 
To  each  poor  brother  who  offends  against  us — 
Most  innocent,  perhaps — and  what  if  guilty  ? 
Is  this  the  only  cure  ?    Merciful  God  ! 
Each  pore  and  natural  outlet  shrivelled  up 
By  Ignorance  and  parching  Poverty, 
His  energies  roll  back  upon  his  heart 
And  stagnate  and  corrupt,  till,  changed  to  poison, 
They  break  out  on  him,  like  a  loathsome  plague-spot ! 
Then  we  call  in  our  pampered  mountebanks  ; 
And  this  is  their  best  cure  !  uncornforted 
And  friendless  Solitude,  Groaning  and  Tears, 
And  savage  Faces,  at  the  clanking  hour, 
Seen  through  the  steam  and  vapors  of  his  dungeon 
By  the  lamp's  dismal  twilight !     So  he  lies 
Circled  with  evil,  till  his  very  soul 
Unmoulds  its  essence,  hopelessly  deformed 
By  sights  of  evermore  deformity  ! 
With  other  ministrations  thou,  O  Nature  ! 


368  COLERIDGE  'S  POEMS. 

Healest  thy  wandering  and  distempered  child : 

Thou  pourest  on  him  thy  soft  influences, 

Thy  sunny  hues,  fair  forms,  and  breathing  sweets ; 

Thy  melodies  of  woods,  and  winds,  and  waters! 

Till  he  relent,  and  can  no  more  endure 

To  be  a  jarring  and  a  dissonant  thing 

Amid  this  general  dance  and  minstrelsy  ; 

But,  bursting  into  tears,  wins  back  his  way, 

His  angry  spirit  healed  and  harmonized 

By  the  benignant  touch  of  love  and  beauty. 

I  am  chill  and  weary  !     Yon  rude  bench  of  stone, 

In  that  dark  angle,  the  sole  resting-place  ! 

But  the  self-approving  mind  is  its  own  light, 

And  life's  best  warmth  still  radiates  from  the  heart 

Where  love  sits  brooding,  and  an  honest  purpose. 

[Retires  out  of  sight 
Enter  TERESA  with  a  Taper. 

TERESA. 

It  has  chilled  my  very  life my  own  voice  scares  me ; 

Yet  when  I  hear  it  not,  I  seem  to  lose 

The  substance  of  my  being — my  strongest  grasp 

Sends  inwards  but  weak  witness  that  I  am. 

I  seek  to  cheat  the  echo. — How  the  half-sounds 

Blend  with  this  strangled  light !     Is  he  not  here — 

[looking  round 

O  for  one  human  face  here — but  to  see 
One  human  face  here  to  sustain  me. — Courage  ! 
It  is  but  my  own  fear  !     The  life  within  me, 
It  sinks  and  wavers  like  this  cone  of  flame, 

Beyond  which  I  scarce  dare  look  onward  !     Oh  !     [shuddering. 
Iff  faint  ?     If  this  inhuman  den  should  be 
At  once  my  death-bed  and  my  burial  vault  ? 

[Faintly  screams  as  Alvar  emerges  from  the  recess 
ALVAR.  (rushes  towar  "s  her,  and  catches  her  as  she  is  falling.) 
O  gracious  Heaven  !  it  is,  it  is  Teresa  ! 
Shall  1  reveal  myself?    The  sudden  shock 
Of  rapture  will  blow  out  this  spark  of  life, 
And  Joy  complete  what  Terror  has  begun. 

0  ye  impetuous  beatings  here,  be  still ! 
Teresa,  best  beloved  !  pale,  pale,  and  cold  ! 
Her  pulse  doth  flutter  1     Teresa  !  my  Teresa  ! 

TERESA,  (recovering,  looks  round  wildly.) 

1  heard  a  voice  ;  but  often  in  my  dreams 


REMORSE.  369 


I  hear  that  voice  !  and  wake,  and  try — and  try — 
To  hear  it  waking  !  but  I  never  could  — 
And  'tis  so  now — even  so  !     Well !  he  is  dead — 
Murdered  perhaps  !     And  I  am  faint,  and  feel 
As  if  it  were  no  painful  thing  to  die  ! 

ALVAR.  (eagerly.} 

Believe  it  not,  sweet  maid  !  Believe  it  not, 
Beloved  woman  !  'Twas  a  low  imposture, 
Framed  by  a  guilty  wretch. 

TERESA,   (retires  from  him,  and  feebly  supports  herself  against  a 
pillar  of  the  dungeon.) 

Ha  !  Who  art  thou  ? 

ALVAR.  (exceedingly  affected.) 
Suborned  by  his  brother — 

TERESA. 

Didst  thou  murder  him  ? 

And  dost  thou  now  repent?    Poor  troubled  man, 
I  do  forgive  thee,  and  may  Heaven  forgive  thee  1 

ALVAR. 
Ordonio — he — 

TERESA. 

If  thou  didst  murder  him — 
His  spirit  ever  at  the  throne  of  God 
Asks  mercy  for  thee  :  prays  for  mercy  for  thee, 
With  tears  in  Heaven  ! 

ALVAR. 

Alvar  was  not  murdered. 
Be  calm  !    Be  calm,  sweet  maid  ! 

TERESA,  (wildly.) 
Nay,  nay,  but  tell  me  !  [a  pause,  then  presses  her  forehead. 

O  'tis  lost  again  ! 
This  dull  confused  pain —  [a  pause,  she  gazes  at  Alvar. 

Mysterious  man  ! 

Methinks  I  cannot  fear  thee  :  for  thine  eye 
Doth  swim  with  love  and  pity — Well !  Ordonio — 
Oh,  my  foreboding  heart !     And  he  suborned  thee, 
And  thou  didst  spare  his  life  ?     Blessings  shower  on  thee, 
As  many  as  the  drops  twice  counted  o'er 
In  the  fond  faithful  heart  of  his  Teresa  ! 

24 


37°  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

ALVAR. 

I  can  endure  no  more.     The  Moorish  Sorcerer 
Exists  but  in  the  stain  upon  his  face. 
That  picture — 

TERESA,  (advances  totoards  Mm.) 
Ha  !  speak  on  ! 

ALVAR. 

Beloved  Teresa ! 

It  told  but  half  the  truth.     O  let  this  portrait 
Tell  all— that  Alvar  lives— that  he  is  here  ! 
Thy  much  deceived  but  ever-faithful  Alvar. 

[Takes  her  portrait  from  his  neck,  and  gives  it  her. 
TERESA,  (receiving  the  portrait.) 
The  same— it  is  the  same.     Ah  !     Who  art  thou  ? 
Nay,  I  will  call  thee,  ALVAR  !  [She  falls  on  his  nectt. 

ALVAR. 

O  joy  unutterable ! 

Put  hark  !  a  sound  as  of  removing  bars 
At  the  dungeon's  outer  door.     A  brief,  brief  while 
Conceal  thyself,  my  love  !     It  is  Ordonio. 
For  the  honor  of  our  race,  for  our  dear  father  ; 
O  for  himself  too  (he  is  still  my  brother), 
Let  me  recall  him  to  his  nobler  nature, 
That  he  may  wake  as  from  a  dream  of  murder  I 
O  let  me  reconcile  him  to  himself, 
Open  the  sacred  source  of  penitent  tears, 
And  be  once  more  his  own  beloved  Alvar. 

TERESA. 

O  my  all-virtuous  Love !  I  fear  to  leave  thee 
With  that  obdurate  man. 

ALVAR. 

Thou  dost  not  leave  me ! 
But  a  brief  while  retire  into  the  darkness  : 
O  that  my  joy  could  spread  its  sunshine  round  thee  ! 

TERESA. 
The  sound  of  thy  voice  shall  be  my  music  I 

[Retiring,  she  returns  hastily  and  embracing  Alvar 
Alvar  !  my  Alvar  !  am  I  sure  I  hold  thee  ? 

Is  it  no  dream?  thee  in  my  arms,  my  Alvar  !  [Exit. 

[A  noise  at  the  Dungeon  door.     It  opens,  and  Ordonio  enters 
with  a  goblet  in  his  hand. 

ORDONIO. 
Hail,  potent  wizard  !  in  my  gayer  mood 


REMORSE.  371 

I  poured  forth  a  libation  to  old  Pluto, 

And  as  I  brimmed  the  bowl,  I  thought  on  thee, 

Thou  hast  conspired  against  my  life  and  honor, 

Hast  tricked  me  foully  ;  yet  I  hate  thee  not. 

Why  should  I  hate  thee  ?  this  same  world  of  ours, 

'Tis  but  a  pool  amid  a  storm  of  rain, 

And  we  the  air-bladders  that  course  up  and  down, 

And  joust  and  tilt  in  merry  tournament ; 

And  when  one  bubble  runs  foul  of  another, 

[waving  his  hand  to  Alvai 
The  weaker  needs  must  break. 

ALVAR. 

I  see  thy  heart ! 

There  is  a  frightful  glitter  in  thine  eye, 
Which  doth  betray  thee.     Inly-tortured  man, 
Tiiis  is  the  revelry  of  a  drunken  anguish, 
Which  fain  would  scoff  away  the  pang  of  guilt, 
And  quell  each  human  feeling. 

ORDomo. 

Feeling !  feeling  I 

The  death  of  a  man — the  breaking  of  a  bubble — 
'Tis  true  I  cannot  sob  for  such  misfortunes  j 
But  faintness,  cold  and  hunger — curses  on  me 
If  willingly  I  e'er  inflicted  them  ! 
Come,  take  the  beverage  ;  this  chill  place  demands  it. 

[Ordonio  proffers  the  goblet 

ALVAR. 

Yon  insect  on  the  wall, 

Which  moves  this  way  and  that,  its  hundred  limbs, 
Were  it  a  toy  of  mere  mechanic  craft, 
It  were  an  infinitely  curious  thing ! 
But  it  has  life,  Ordonio  !  life,  enjoyment! 
And  by  the  power  of  its  miraculous  will 
Wields  all  the  complex  movements  of  its  frame 
Unerringly  to  pleasurable  ends  ! 
Saw  I  that  insect  on  this  goblet's  brim 
I  would  remove  it  with  an  anxious  pity  ! 

ORDONIO. 
What  meanest  thou  ? 

ALVAR. 
There's  poison  in  the  wine. 


372  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

ORDONIO. 

Thou  hast  guessed  right ;  there's  poison  in  the  wine. 
There's  poison  in't — which  of  us  two  shall  drink  it  ? 
For  one  of  us  must  die  ! 

ALVAR. 
Whom  dost  thou  think  me  ? 

ORDONIO. 
The  accomplice  and  sworn  friend  of  Isidore. 

ALVAR. 

I  know  him  not. 

And  yot,  methinks,  I  have  heard  the  name  but  lately. 
Means  he  the  husband  of  the  Moorish  woman  ? 
Isidore  ?   Isidore  ? 

ORDONIO. 

Good  !  good !  that  Lie  !  by  Heaven,  it  has  restored  me. 
Now  I  am  thy  master  1 — Villain  !  thou  shalt  drink  it, 
Or  die  a  bitterer  death. 

ALVAR. 

What  a  strange  solution 
Hast  thou  found  out  to  satisfy  thy  fears, 
And  drug  them  to  unnatural  sleep  ? 

[Alvar  takes  the  goblet,  and  throwing  it  to  the  ground  with 
stern  contempt. 

My  master  ! 
ORDONIO. 
Thou  mountebank ! 

ALVAR. 

Mountebank  and  villain  ! 

What  then  art  thou  ?    For  shame,  put  up  thy  sword  ! 
What  boots  a  weapon  in  a  withered  arm  ? 
I  fix  mine  eye  upon  thee,  and  thou  tremblest ! 
I  speak,  and  fear  and  wonder  crush  thy  rage, 
And  turn  it  to  a  motionless  distraction  ! 
Thou  blind  self- worshipper  !  thy  pride,  thy  cunning, 
Thy  faith  in  universal  villany, 
Thy  shallow  sophisms,  thy  pretended  scorn 
For  all  thy  human  brethren — out  upon  them  ! 
What  have  they  done  for  thee  ?  have  they  given  thee  peace? 
Cured  thee  of  starting  in  thy  sleep  ?  or  made 
The  darkness  pleasant  when  thou  wak'st  at  midnight? 
Art  happy  when  alone?    Canst  walk  by  thyself 
With  even  step  and  quiet  cheerfulness  ? 
Yet,  yet  thou  niay'st  be  saved 


REMORSE.  373 


ORDONIO.  (vacantly  repeating  the  words.) 
Saved?  saved? 

ALVAR. 

One  pang  I 
Could  I  call  up  one  pang  of  true  Remorse  ! 

OKDOBTO. 

He  told  me  of  the  babes  that  prattle  to  him, 

His  fatherless  little  ones  !     Remorse  !     Remorso  ! 

Where  got'st  thou  that  fool's  word  ?     Curse  on  Bemorse  ! 

Can  it  give  up  the  dead,  or  recompact 

A  mangled  body  ?  mangled — dashed  to  atoms  ! 

Not  all  the  blessings  of  an  host  of  angels 

Can  blow  away  a  desolate  widow's  curse  ! 

And  though  thou  spill  thy  heart's  blood  for  atonement, 

It  will  not  weigh  against  an  orphan's  tear  ! 

ALVAR.  (almost  overcome  by  Ms  feelings.} 

But  Alvar 

ORDONIO. 

Ha !  it  chokes  thee  in  the  throatr 
Even  thee  ;  and  yet  I  pray  thee  speak  it  out — 
Still  Alvar  ! — Alvar  ! — howl  it  in  mine  ear  I 
Heap  it  like  coals  of  fire  upon  my  heart, 
And  shoot  it  hissing  through  my  brain  ! 

ALVAR. 

Alas  I 

That  day  when  thou  didst  leap  from  off  the  rock 
Into  the  waves,  and  grasped  thy  sinking  brother, 
And  bore  him  to  the  strand  ;  then,  son  of  Valdez, 
How  sweet  and  musical  the  name  of  Alvar  ! 
Then,  then,  Ordonio,  he  was  dear  to  thee, 
And  thou  wert  dear  to  him  :  Heaven  only  knows 
How  very  dear  thou  wert !     Why  did'st  thou  hate  him  J 

0  Heaven  !  how  he  would  fall  upon  thy  neck, 
And  weep  forgiveness ! 

ORDONIO. 
Spirit  of  the  dead  ! 

Methinks  I  know  thee !  ha  !  my  brain  turns  wild 
At  its  own  dreams  1 — off — off — fantastic  shadow  I 

ALVAR. 

1  fain  would  tell  thee  what  I  am  !  but  dare  not  1 


374  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

ORDONIO. 

Cheat!  villain!  traitor!  whatsoe'er  thou  be — 
I  fear  thee,  Man  ! 

TERESA,  (rushing  out  and  falling  on  Alvar' s  neck.) 

Ordonio  !  'tis  thy  Brother. 

[Ordonio  with  frantic  wildness  rushes  upon  Alvar  with  his 
sword.  Teresa  .flings  herself  on  Ordonio  and  arrests  his 
arm. 

Stop,  madman,  stop ! 

ALVAR. 

Does  theo  this  thin  disguise  impenetrably 
Hide  Alvar  from  thee  ?     Toil  and  painful  wounds 
And  long  imprisonment  in  unwholesome  dungeons, 
Have  marred  perhaps  all  trait  and  lineament 
Of  what  I  was  !     But  chiefly,  chiefly,  brother, 
My  anguish  for  thy  guilt ! 

Ordonio — Brother ! 
Nay,  nay,  thou  shalt  embrace  me. 

ORDONIO.  (drawing  back,  and  gazing  at  Alvar  with  a  countenance 
of  at  once  awe  and  terror. 

Touch  me  not ! 
Touch  not  pollution,  Alvar !     I  will  die. 

[He  attempts  to  fall  on  his  sword,  Alvar  and  Teresa  prevent 
him. 

ALVAR. 

We  will  find  means  to  save  your  honor.     Live, 
Oh  live,  Ordonio  !  for  our  father's  sake  ! 
Spare  his  gray  hairs  ! 

TERESA. 
And  you  may  yet  be  happy. 

ORDONIO. 

O  horror !  not  a  thousand  years  in  heaven 
Could  recompose  this  miserable  heart, 
Or  make  it  capable  of  one  brief  joy ! 
Live  !  Live  I  Why  yes  !  'Twere  well  to  live  with  you  ; 
For  is  it  fit  a  villain  should  be  proud  ? 

My  Brother  !   I  will  kneel  to  you,  my  Brother  !  [kneeling. 

Forgive  me,  Alvar  ! — Curse  me  with  forgiveness  ! 

ALVAR. 

Call  back  thy  soul,  Ordonio,  and  look  round  thee  ! 
Now  is  the  time  for  greatness  !     Think  that  heaven — 


REMORSE.  375 


TERESA. 

0  mark  his  ^ye  !  he  hears  not  what  you  say. 

ORDONIO.  {pointing  at  the  vacancy.) 
Yes,  mark  his  eye  !  there's  fascination  in  it  I 
Thou  saidst  tho'u  didst  not  know  him — That  is  he  1 
He  comes  upon  me  ! 

ALVAR. 
Heal,  O  heal  him,  Heaven  ! 

ORDONIO. 

Nearer  and  nearer !  and  I  cannot  stir  ! 
Will  no  one  hear  these  stifled  groans,  and  wake  me  ? 
He  would  have  died  to  save  me,  and  I  killed  him — 
A  husband  and  a  father  ! — 

TERESA. 

Some  secret  poison 
Drinks  up  his  spirits ! 

ORDONIO.  (fiercely  recollecting  himself.) 

Let  the  Eternal  Justice 
Prepare  my  punishment  in  the  obscure  world — 

1  will  not  bear  to  live — to  live — O  agony  ! 
And  be  myself  alone  my  own  sore  torment ! 

[  The  doors  of  the  dungeon  are  broken  open,  and  in  rush  Al- 
hadra,  and  the  band  of  Morescoes. 

ALHADRA. 
Seize  first  that  man ! 

[ Alvar  presses  onward  to  defend  Ordonio. 

ORDONIO. 

Off,  Ruffians  !   I  have  flung  away  my  sword. 
Woman,  my  life  is  thine  !  to  thee  I  give  it ! 
Off  !  he  that  touches  me  with  his  hand  of  flesh, 
I'll  rend  his  limbs  asunder  !     I  have  strength 
With  this  bare  arm  to  scatter  you  like  ashes. 

ALHADRA. 
My  husband — 

ORDONIO. 
Yes,  I  murdered  him  most  foully. 

ALVAR  and  TERESA. 
0  horrible  I 


376  COLERIDGE'S  FOE  MS. 

ALHADRA. 

Why  didst  thou  leave  his  children  ? 
Demon,  thou  shouldst  have  sent  thy  dogs  of  hell 
To  lap  their  blood.     Then,  then,  I  might  have  hardened 
My  soul  in  misery,  and  have  had  comfort. 
I  would  have  stood  far  off,  quiet  though  dark, 
And  bade  the  race  of  men  raise  up  a  mourning 
For  a  deep  horror  of  a  desolation, 
Too  great  to  be  one  soul's  particular  lot ! 
Brother  of  Zagri !  let  me  lean  upon  thee. 

[struggling  to  suppress  her  feelings. 
The  time  is  not  yet  come  for  woman's  anguish, 
I  have  not  seen  his  blood — Within  an  hour 
Those  little  ones  will  crowd  around  and  ask  me, 
Where  is  our  father  ?     I  shall  curse  thee  then  ! 
Wert  thou  in  heaven,  my  curse  would  pluck  thee  thence ! 

TERESA. 
He  doth  repent !     See,  see,  I  kneel  to  thee ! 

0  let  him  live !     That  aged  man,  his  father — 

ALHADRA.  (sternly.) 

Why  had  he  such  a  son  ? 

[Shouts  from  the  distance  of,  Rescue  !      Rescue !      Alvar  1 
Alvar !  and  the  voice  of  Valdez  heard. 

ALHADRA. 

Rescue  ?— and  Isidore's  spirit  unavenged  ? 

The  deed,  be  mine  !  [suddenly  stabs  Ordonio. 

Now  take  my  Life ! 

ORDONIO.  (staggering  from  the  wound.} 

ATONEMENT  I 

ALVAR.  (while  with  Teresa  supporting  Ordonio.} 
Arm  of  avenging  Heaven 

Thou  hast  snatched  from  me  my  most  cherished  hope — 
But  go!  my  word  was  pledged  to  thee. 

ORDONIO. 

Away! 
Brave  not  my  Father's  Rage  !     I  thank  thee  !     Thou— 

then  turning  his  eyes  languidly  to  Alvar. 
She  hath  avenged  the  blood  of  Isidore  ! 

1  stood  in  silence  like  a  slave  before  her 

That  I  might  taste  the  wormwood  and  the  gall. 


REMORSE.  377 


And  satiate  this  self-accusing  heart 

With  bitterer  agonies  than  death  can  give. 

Forgive  me,  Alvar  ! — 

Oh  !— couldst  thou  forget  me  !  [Dies. 

[Alvar  and  Teresa  bend  over  the  body  of  Ordonio. 

ALHADRA.  (to  the  Moors.) 

I  thank  thee,  Heaven  !  thou  hast  ordained  it  wisely, 
That  still  extremes  bring  their  own  cure.     That  point 
In  misery,  which  makes  the  oppressed  Man 
Regardless  of  his  own  life,  makes  him  too 
Lord  of  the  Oppressor's — Knew  I  an  hundred  men 
Despairing,  but  not  palsied  by  despair, 
This  arm  should  shake  the  Kingdoms  of  the  World  ; 
The  deep  foundations  of  iniquity 

Should  sink  away,  earth  groaning  from  beneath  them  ; 
The  strong  holds  of  the  cruel  men  should  fall, 
Their  Temples  and  their  mountainous  Towers  should  fall, 
Till  Desolation  seemed  a  beautiful  thing, 
And  all  that  were  and  had  the  spirit  of  Life, 
Sang  a  new  song  to  her  who  had  gone  forth, 
Conquering  and  still  to  conquer ! 

[Alhadra  hurries  off  with  the  Moors ;  the  stage  fills  wttn 
armed  peasants  and  servants,  Zulimez  and  Valdez  at 
their  head.  Valdez  rushes  into  Alvar's  arms. 

ALVAR. 

Turn  not  thy  face  that  way,  my  father  !  hide, 
Oh  hide  it  from  his  eye  !     Oh  let  thy  joy 
Flow  in  unmingled  stream  through  thy  first  blessing. 

[both  kneel  to  Valdez, 

VALDEZ. 
My  Son  !    My  Alvar !  bless,  Oh  bless  him,  Heaven  ! 

TERESA. 
Me  too,  my  Father  ? 

VALDEZ. 
Bless,  Oh  bless  my  children  !         [both  rise. 

ALVAR. 

Delights  so  full,  if  unalloyed  with  grief, 
Were  ominous.     In  these  strange  dread  events 
Just  Heaven  instructs  us  with  an  awful  voice, 
That  Conscience  rules  us  e'en  against  our  choice. 
Our  inward  Monitress  to  guide  or  warn, 
If  listened  to  ;  but  if  repelled  with  scorn, 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


At  length,  as  dire  REMORSE,  she  re-appears, 
Works  in  our  guilty  hopes  and  selfish  fears  ! 
Still  bids,  Remember !  and  still  cries,  Too  late  ! 
And  while  she  scares  us,  goads  us  to  our  fate. 


APPENDIX. 

THE  following  Scene,  as  unfit  for  the  Stage,  was  taken  from  the  Tragedy,  in  the 
year  1797,  and  published  in  the  Lyrical  Ballads.  But  this  work  having  been  long  out 
of  print,  and  it  having  been  determined,  that  this  with  my  other  poems  in  that  col- 
lection (the  NIGHTINGALE,  LOVE,  and  the  ANCIENT  MARINER)  should  be  omitted  in 
any  future  edition,  I  have  been  advised  to  reprint  it,  as  a  note  to  the  Second  Scene  of 
Act  the  Fourth,  p.  360. 

Enter  TERESA  and  SELMA. 

TERESA. 

'Tis  said,  he  spake  of  you  familiarly, 
As  mine  and  Alvar's  common  foster-mother. 

SELMA. 

Now  blessings  on  the  man,  whoe'er  he  be, 
That  joined  your  names  with  mine  !    O  my  sweet  Lady, 
As  often  as  I*  think  of  those  dear  times, 
When  you  two  little  ones  would  stand,  at  eve, 
On  each  side  of  my  chair,  and  make  me  learn 
All  you  had  learnt  in  the  day  ;  and  how  to  talk 

In  gentle  phrase  ;  then  bid  me  sing  to  you 

'Tis  more  like  heaven  to  come,  than  what  has  been ! 

TERESA. 
But  that  entrance,  Selma? 

SELMA. 
Can  no  one  hear  ?    It  is  a  perilous  tale f 

TERESA. 
No  one. 

SELMA. 

My  husband's  father  told  it  me, 
Poor  old  Sesina — angels  rest  his  soul ; 
He  was  a  woodman,  and  could  fell  and  saw 
With  lusty  arm.     You  know  that  huge  round  beam 
Which  props  the  hanging  wall  of  the  old  Chapel  ? 


REMORSE.  379 


Beneath  that  tree,  while  yet  it  was  a  tree, 

He  found  a  baby  wrapt  in  mosses,  lined 

With  thistle-beards,  and  such  small  locks  of  wool 

As  hang  on  brambles.     Well,  he  brought  him  home, 

And  reared  him  at  the  then  Lord  Valdez's  cost. 

And  so  the  babe  grew  up  a  pretty  boy, 

A  pretty  boy,  but  most  unteachable — 

And  never  learnt  a  prayer,  nor  told  a  bead, 

But  knew  the  names  of  birds,  arid  mocked  their  notes, 

And  whistled,  as  he  were  a  bird  himself : 

And  all  the  autumn  'twas  his  only  play 

To  gather  seeds  of  wild-flowers,  and  to  pla.rit  them 

With  earth  and  water  on  the  stumps  of  trees. 

A  Friar,  who  gathered  simples  in  the  wood, 

A  gray-haired  man,  he  loved  this  little  boy : 

The  boy  loved  him,  and,  when  the  friar  taught  him, 

He  soon  could  write  with  the  peri ;  and  from  that  time 

Lived  chiefly  at  the  Convent  or  the  Castle. 

So  he  became  a  rare  and  learned  youth : 

But  O !  poor  wretch  !  he  read,  and  read,  and  read, 

'Till  his  brain  turned  ;  and  ere  his  twentieth  year 

He  had  unlawful  thoughts  of  many  things  ; 

And  though  he  prayed,  he  never  loved  to  pray 

With  holy  men,  nor  in  a  holy  place. 

But  yet  his  speech,  it  was  so  soft  and  sweet, 

The  late  Lord  Valdez  ne'er  was  wearied  with  him. 

And  once,  as  by  the  north  side  of  the  chapel 

They  stood  together,  chained  in  deep  discourse, 

The  earth  heaved  under  them  with  such  a  groan, 

That  the  wall  tottered,  and  had  wellnigh  fallen 

Right  on  their  heads.     My  Lord  was  sorely  f lightened  ; 

A  fever  seized  him,  and  he  made  confession 

Of  all  the  heretical  and  lawless  talk 

Which  brought  this  judgment :  so  the  youth  was  seized, 

And  cast  into  that  hole.     My  husband's  father 

Sobbed  like  a  child — it  almost  broke  his  heart : 

And  once  as  he  was  working  near  this  dungeon, 

He  heard  a  voice  distinctly  ;  'twas  the  youth's, 

Who  sung  a  doleful  song  about  green  fields, 

How  sweet  it  were  on  lake  or  wide  savannah 

To  hunt  for  food,  and  be  a  naked  man, 

And  wander  up  and  down  at  liberty. 

He  always  doted  on  the  youth,  arid  now 

His  love  grew  desperate  j  and  defying  death, 

He  made  that  cunning  entrance  I  described 

And  the  young  man  escaped. 


380  COLERIDG&S  POEMS. 

TERESA. 

'Tis  a  sweet  tale  : 

Such  as  would  lull  a  listening  child  to  sleep, 
His  rosy  face  besoiled  with  unwiped  tears. 
And  what  became  of  him  ? 

SELMA. 

He  went  on  shipboard 

With  those  bold  voyagers  who  made  discovery 
Of  golden  lands.     Sesina"s  younger  brother 
Went  likewise,  and  when  he  returned  to  Spain, 
He  told  Sesina,  that  the  poor  mad  youth, 
Soon  after  they  arrived  in  that  new  world, 
In  spite  of  his  dissuasion,  seized  a  boat, 
And  all  alone  set  sail  by  silent  moonlight 
Up  a  great  river,  great  as  any  sea, 
And  ne'er  was  heard  of  more  :  but  'tis  supposed, 
He  lived  and  died  among  the  savage  men. 


Note  to  the  words  '  you  are  a  painter,'  p  336,  Scene  11.  Act  II. 

The  following  lines  I  have  preserved  in  this  place  not  so  much  as  explanatory  of 
the  picture  of  the  assassination,  as  (if  I  may  say  so  without  disrespect  to  the  Public) 
to  gratify  my  own  feelings,  the  passage  being  no  mem  fancy  portrait ,  but  a  slight.,  yet 
not  unfaithful,  profile  of  one,*  who  still  lives  nobilitate  felix,  arte  clarior,  vita  coteu- 
dissimus , 

ZULIMEZ.  (speaking  of  Alvar  in  the  third  person.) 
Such  was  the  noble  Spaniard's  own  relation. 
He  told  me,  too,  how  in  his  early  youth, 
And  his  first  travels,  'twas  his  choice  or  chance 
To  make  long  sojourn  in  sea-wedded  Venice  ; 
There  won  the  love  of  that  divine  old  man. 
Courted  by  mightiest  kings,  the  famous  TITIAN  ! 
Who,  like  a  second  and  more  lovely  Nature, 
By  the  sweet  mystery  of  lines  and  colors 
Changed  the  blank  canvas  to  a  magic  mirror. 
That  made  the  Absent  present ;  and  to  Shadows 
Gave  light,  depth,  substance,  bloom,  yea,  thought  and  motion 
He  loved  the  old  man.  and  revered  his  art : 
And  though  of  noblest  birth  and  ample  fortune, 
The  young  enthusiast  thought  it  no  scorn 
But  his  inalienable  ornament, 
To  be  his  pupii,  and  with  filial  zeal 
By  practice  to  appropriate  the  sage  lessons, 
Which  the  gay,  smiling  old  man  gladly  gave. 


Sir  George  Beaumont,    (Written  1814.] 


REMORSE.  381 


The  Art,  he  honored  thus,  requited  him  : 
And  in  the  following  arid  calamitous  years 
Beguiled  the  hours  of  his  captivity. 

ALHADRA. 

And  then  he  framed  this  picture  ?  and  unaided 
By  arts  unlawful,  spell,  or  talisman  ? 

ALVAR. 

A  potent  spell,  a  mighty  talisman  ! 
The  imperishable  memory  of  t,/e  deed, 
Sustained  by  love,  and  grief,  and  indignation  ! 
So  vivid  were  the  forms  within  his  brain, 
His  very  eyes,  when  shut,  made  pictures  of  them  I 


THE   FALL   OF   ROBESPIERRE.* 

AN  HISTORICAL  DRAMA. 
1794. 


TO 

H.  MARTIN,  ESQ., 

OF  JESUS  COLLEGE,  CAMBRIDGE. 

DEAR  SIR,— Accept,  as  a  small  testimony  of  my  grateful  attachment,  the  following 
Dramatic  Poem,  in  which  I  have  endeavored  to  detail,  in  an  interesting  form,  the  fall 
of  a  man  whose  great  bad  actions  have  cast  a  disastrous  lustre  on  his  name.  In  the 
execution  of  the  work,  as  intricacy  of  plot  could  not  have  been  attempted  without  a 


gross  violation  of  recent  facts,  it  has  been  my  sole  aim  to  imitate  the  impassioned  and 
highly-figurative  language  of  the  Frenc" 
chief 'actors  on  a  vast  stage  of  horrors. 


ily-figurative  language  of  the  French  orators,  and  to  develop  the  characters  of  the 


Yours  fraternally, 
JESUS  COLLEGE,  Sept.  22, 1794.  S.  T.  COLERIDGE. 


ACT  L 

SCENE.— The  Tuilleries. 
Enter  BARRERE. 

BARRERE. 

THE  tempest  gathers— be  it  mine  to  seek 
A  friendly  shelter,  ere  it  bursts  upon  him. 
But  where  ?  and  how  ?     I  fear  the  Tyrant's  soul- 
Sudden  in  action  fertile  in  resource, 
And  rising  awful  'mid  impending  ruins  ; 
In  splendor  gloomy,  as  the  midnight  meteor, 
That  fearless  thwarts  the  elemental  war. 
When  last  in  secret  conference  we  met, 
He  scowled  upon  me  with  suspicious  rage, 
Making  his  eye  the  inmate  of  my  bosom. 

*  The  fall  of  Robespierre  was  published  in  1794,  but  as  it  was  only  partially  written 
by  Coleridge  we  place  it  next  to  his  magnificent  translation  of  Schiller.  The  second 
and  third  Acts  were  written  by  Southey,  but  as  the  pTay  would  be  incomplete  without 
them,  we  leave  it  as  Coleiidge  published  it. 

(382) 


THE  FALL  OF  ROBESPIERRE.  383 

I  know  he  scorns  me — and  I  feel,  I  hate  him — 

Yet  there  is  in  him  that  which  makes  me  tremble  !  [Exit 

Enter  TALLIES  and  LEGENDRE. 

TALLIEN. 

It  was  Barrere,  Legendre  !  didst  thou  mark  him  ? 
Abrupt  he  turned,  yet  lingered  as  he  went, 
And  towards  us  cast  a  look  of  doubtful  meaning. 

LEGENDRE. 

I  marked  him  well.     I  met  his  eye's  last  glance ; 
It  menaced  not  so  proudly  as  of  yore. 

He  thought  he  would  have  spoke — but  that  he  dared  not — 
Such  agitation  darkened  on  his  brow. 

TALLIEN. 

'Twas  all-distrusting  guilt  that  kept  from  bursting 
The  imprisoned  secret  struggling  in  the  face  : 
E'en  as  the  sudden  breeze  upstarting  onwards 
Hurries  the  thunder-cloud,  that  poised  awhile 
Hung  in  mid-air,  red  with  its  mutinous  burthen. 

LEGEND  RE. 

Perfidious  Traitor  !— still  afraid  to  bask 
In  the  full  blaze  of  power,  the  rustling  serpent 
Lurks  in  the  thicket  of  the  Tyrant's  greatness. 
Ever  prepared  to  sting  who  shelters  him. 
Each  thought,  each  action  in  himself  converges ; 
And  love  and  friendship  on  ins  coward  heart 
Shine  like  the  powerless  sun  on  polar  ice  : 
To  all  attached,  by  turns  deserting  all, 
Cunning  and  dark — a  necessary  villain  ! 

TALLIEN. 

Yet  much  depends  upon  him — well  you  know 
With  plausible  harangue  'tis  his  to  paint 
Defeat  like  victory — and  blind  the  mob 
With  truth-mixed  falsehood.     They,  led  on  by 
And  wild  of  head  to  work  their  own  destruction, 
Support  with  uproar  what  he  plans  in  darkness. 

LEGENDRE. 

O  what  a  precious  name  is  Liberty 
To  scare  or  cheat  the  simple  into  slaves  ! 
Yes, — we  must  gain  him  over :  by  dark  hints 
We'll  show  enough  to  rouse  his  watchful  fears, 


384  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

Till  the  cold  coward  blaze  a  patriot. 

O  Danton  !  murdered  friend  !  assist  my  counsels — 

Hover  around  me  on  sad  memory's  wings, 

And  pour  thy  daring  vengeance  in  my  heart. 

Tallien  !  if  but  to-morrow's  fateful  sun 

Beholds  the  Tyrant  living — we  are  dead  ! 

TALLIEN. 
Yet  his  keen  eye  that  flashes  mighty  meanings — 

LEGKENDRE. 

Fear  not — or  rather  fear  the  alternative, 
And  seek  for  courage  e'en  in  cowardice — 
But  see — hither  he  comes — let  us  away ! 
His  brother  with  him,  and  the  bloody  Couthon, 
And  high  of  haughty  spirit,  young  St.  Just.  [Exeunt. 

Enter  ROBESPIERRE,  COUTHON,  ST.  JUST,  and  ROBESPIERRE  JUJST, 

ROBESPIERRE. 

What  !  did  La  Fayette  fall  before  iny  power  ? 
And  did  I  conquer  Roland's  spotless  virtues  ? 
The  fervent  eloquence  of  Vergniaud's  tongue  ? 
And  Brissot's  thoughtful  soul  unbribed  and  bold? 
Did  zealot  armies  haste  in  vain  to  save  them  ? 
What!  did  the  assassin's  dagger  aim  its  point, 
Vain  as  a  dream  of  murder,  at  my  bosom  ? 
And  shall  I  dread  the  soft  luxurious  Tallien  ? 
The  Adonis  Tallien  ?  banquet-hunting  Tallien  ? 
Him,  whose  heart  Lutters  at  the  dice-box  ?     Him, 
Who  ever  on  the  harlot's  downy  pillow 
Resigns  his  head  impure  to  feverish  slumbers  I 

ST.  JUST. 

I  cannot  fear  him — yet  we  must  not  scorn  him. 
Was  it  not  Antony  that  conquered  Brutus, 
The  Adonis,  banquet-hunting  Antony  ? 
The  state  is  not  yet  purified  :  and  though 
The  stream  runs  clear,  yet  at  the  bottom  lies 
The  thick  black  sediment  of  all  the  factions — 
It  needs  no  magic  hand  to  stir  it  up ! 

COUTHON. 

O  we  did  wrong  to  spare  them — fatal  error  ! 
Why  lived  Legendre,  when  that  Danton  died  ? 
And  Collot  d'Herbois  dangerous  in  crimes  ? 
I've  feared  him,  since  his  iron  heart  endured 
To  make  of  Lyons  one  vast  human  shambles. 


THE  FALL  OF  ROBESPIERRE.  385 

Compared  with  which  the  sun-scorched  wilderness 
Of  Zara  were  a  smiling  paradise. 

ST.  JUST. 

Rightly  thou  judgest,  Couthon  !     He  is  one 
Who  flies  from  silent  solitary  anguish, 
Seeking  forgetful  peace  amid  the  jar 
Of  elements.     The  howl  of  maniac  uproar 
Lulls  to  sad  sleep  the  memory  of  himself. 
A  calm  is  fatal  to  him — then  he  feels 
The  dire  upboilings  of  the  storm  within  him. 
A  tiger  mad  with  inward  wounds  ! — I  dread 
The  fierce  and  restless  turbulence  of  guilt. 

ROBESPIERRE. 

Is  not  the  commune  ours  ?  the  stern  tribunal  ? 
Dumas  ?  and  Vivier  ?  Fleuriot  ?  and  Louvet  ? 
And  Henriot !     We'll  denounce  a  hundred,  nor 
Shall  they  behold  to-morrow's  sun  roll  westward. 

ROBESPIERRE  JUN. 

Nay — I  am  sick  of  blood  ;  my  aching  heart 
Reviews  the  long,  long  train  of  hideous  horrors 
That  still  have  gloomed  the  rise  of  the  republic. 
I  should  have  died  before  Toulon,  when  war 
Became  the  patriot ! 

ROBESPIERRE. 
Most  unworthy  wish  I 

He,  whose  heart  sickens  at  the  blood  of  traitors, 
Would  be  himself  a  traitor,  were  he  not 
A  coward  !     'Tis  congenial  souls  alone 
Shed  tears  of  sorrow  for  each  other's  fate. 
O  thou  art  brave,  my  brother  !  and  thine  eye 
Full  firmly  shines  amid  the  groaning  battle — 
Yet  in  thine  heart  the  woman-form  of  pity 
Asserts  too  large  a  share,  an  ill-timed  guest ! 
There  is  unsoundness  in  the  state — To-inorrow 
Shall  see  it  cleansed  by  wholesome  massacre  ! 

ROBESPIERRE  JUN. 

Beware  !  already  do  the  sections  murmur — 
'  O  the  great  glorious  patriot,  Robespierre — 
The  tyrant  guardian  of  the  country's  freedom  i  * 

COUTHOX. 

'Twere  folly  sure  to  work  great  deeds  by  halves ! 

25 


386  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

Much  I  suspect  the  darksome  fickla  heart 
Of  cold  Barrere ! 

ROBESPIERRE. 
I  see  the  villain  in  him ! 

ROBESPIERRE  JUN. 
If  he — if  all  forsake  thee — what  remains  ? 

ROBESPIERRE. 

Myself  !  the  steel-strong  Rectitude  of  soul 

And  Poverty  sublime  'mid  circling  virtues  ! 

The  giant  Victories,  my  counsels  formed, 

Shall  stalk  around  me  with  sun-glittering  plumes, 

Bidding  the  darts  of  calumny  fall  pointless. 

[Exeunt  cceteri.    Manet  COUTHON. 

COUTHON.  (solus.) 

So  we  deceive  ourselves  !    What  goodly  virtues 
Bloom  on  the  poisonous  branches  of  ambition  ! 
Still,  Robespierre  !  thou'lt  guard  thy  country's  freedom 
To  despotise  in  all  the  patriot's  pomp  ; 
While  Conscience,  'mid  the  mob's  applauding  clamors, 
Sleeps  in  thine  ear,  nor  whispers — blood-stained  tyrant ! 
Yet  what  is  Conscience  ?     Superstition's  dream, 
Making  such  deep  impression  on  our  sleep 
That  long  the  awakened  breast  retains  it  horrors ! 
But  he  returns — and  with  him  comes  Barrere.        [Exit  COUTHON. 

Enter  ROBESPIERRE  and  BARRERE. 

ROBESPIERRE. 

There  is  no  danger  but  in  cowardice. — 
Barrere  I  we  make  the  danger,  when  we  fear  it. 
We  have  such  force  without,  as  will  suspend 
The  cold  and  trembling  treachery  of  these  member*. 

BARRERE. 
'Twill  be  a  pause  of  terror — 

ROBESPIERRE. 

But  to  whom  ? 

Rather  the  short-lived  slumber  of  the  tempest, 
Gathering  its  strength  anew.     The  dastard  traitors  I 
Moles,  that  would  undermine  the  rooted  oak  ! 
A  pause  ! — a  moment's  pause  ? — 'Tis  all  their  life. 


THE  FALL  OF  ROBESPIERRE.  387 

BARRERE. 

Yet  much  they  talk — and  plausible  their  speech. 
Couthon's  decree  has  given  such  powers,  that — 

ROBESPIERRE. 

That  what  ' 
BARRERE. 
The  freedom  of  debate — 

ROBESPIERRE. 

Transparent  mark ! 

They  wish  to  clog  the  wheels  of  government, 
Forcing  the  hand  that  guides  the  vast  machine 
To  bribe  them  to  their  duty — English  patriots, 
Are  not  the  congregated  clouds  of  war 
Black  all  around  us  ?    In  our  very  vitals 
Works  not  the  king-bred  poison  of  rebellion  ? 
Say,  what  shall  counteract  the  selfish  plottings 
Of  wretches,  cold  of  heart,  nor  awed  by  fears 
Of  him,  whose  power  directs  the  eternal  justice  ? 
Terror  ?  or  secret  sapping  gold  '     The  first 
Heavy,  but  transient  as  the  ills  that  cause  it ; 
And  to  the  virtuous  patriot  rendered  light 
By  the  necessities  that  gave  it  birth : 
The  other  fouls  the  fount  of  the  republic, 
Making  it  flow  polluted  to  all  ages  ; 
Innoculates  the  state  with  a  slow  venom, 
That  once  imbibed,  must  be  continued  ever. 
Myself  incorruptible  I  ne'er  could  bribe  them — 
Therefore  they  hate  me. 

BARRERE. 

Are  the  sections  friendly  ? 

ROBESPIERRE. 

There  are  who  wish  my  ruin — but  I'll  make  them 
Blush  for  the  crime  in  blood ! 

BARRERE. 

Nay— but  I  tell  thee 

Thou  art  too  fond  of  slaughter — and  the  right 
(If  right  it  be)  workest  by  most  foul  means  ! 

ROBESPIERRE. 

Self-centering  Fear  !  how  well  thou  canst  ape  Mercy  \ 
Too  fond  of  slaughter — matchless  hypocrite  1 


388  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS 


Thought  Barrere  so,  when  Brissot,  Danton,  died? 

Thought  Banvre  so,  when  through  the  streaming  streets 

Of  Paris  red-eyed  Massacre  o'ervvearied 

Reeled  heavily,  intoxicate  with  blood  ? 

And  when  (O  heavens  !)  in  Lyons'  death-red  square 

Sick  fancy  groaned  o'er  putrid  hills  of  slain, 

Didst  thou  not  fiercely  laugh,  arid  bless  the  day  ? 

W  hy,  thou  hast  been  the  mouth-piece  of  all  horrors, 

And,  like  a  blood-hound,  crouched  for -murder  !     Now 

Aloof  thou  staridest  from  our  tottering  pillar, 

Or,  like  a  frighted  child  behind  its  mother, 

llidest  thy  pale  face  in  the  skirts  of — Mercy ! 

BARRERE. 

0  prodigality  of  eloquent  anger  ! 

Why  now  I  see  thou'rt  weak — thy  case  is  desperate  I 
The  cool  ferocious  Robespierre  turned  scolder  ! 

ROBESPIERRE. 

Who  from  a  bad  man's  bosom  wards  the  blow 
Reserves  the  whetted  dagger  for  his  own. 
Denounced  twice — and  twice  I  saved  his  life  !  [Exit. 

BARRERE. 

The  sections  will  support  them — there's  the  point ! 
No  !  he  can  never  weather  out  the  storm — 
Yet  he  is  sudden  in  revenge — No  more  ! 

1  must  away  to  Tallien.  [Exit. 

Scene  changes  to  the  house  of  ADELAIDE. 
ADELAIDE  enters,  speaking  to  a  Servant. 

ADELAIDE. 

Didst  thou  present  the  letter  that  I  gave  thee  ? 
Did  Tallien  answer,  he  would  soon  return? 

SERVANT. 

He  is  in  the  Tuilleries— with  him  Legendre — 
In  deep  discourse  they  seemed  :  as  I  approached 
lie  waved  his  hand  as  bidding  me  retire: 
I  did  not  interrupt  him.  [Returns  the  letter. 

ADELAIDE. 
Thou  didst  rightly. 

[Exit  Servant. 
0  this  new  freedom  ?  at  how  dear  a  price 


THE  FALL  OF  ROBESPIERRE.  309 


We've  bought  the  seeming  good  !     The  peaceful  virtues 

And  every  blandishment  of  private  life, 

The  father's  cares,  the  mother's  fond  endearments, 

All  sacrificed  to  liberty's  wild  riot 

The  winged  hours,  that  scattered  roses  round  me, 

Languid  and  sad  drag  their  slow  course  along, 

And  shake  big  gall-drops  from  their  heavy  wings. 

But  I  will  steal  away  these  anxious  thoughts 

By  the  soft  languishment  of  warbled  airs, 

If  haply  melodies  may  lull  the  sense 

Of  sorrow  for  awhile. 

Soft  Music.    Enter  TALLIEN. 

TALLIEN. 

Music,  my  love  ?    O  breathe  again  that  air 
Soft  nurse  of  pain,  it  soothes  the  weary  soul 
Of  care,  sweet  as  the  whispered  breeze  of  evening 
That  plays  around  the  sick  man's  *th  robbing  temples. 

SONG. 

Tell  me,  on  what  holy  ground 
May  domestic  peace  be  found  ? 
Halcyon  daughter  of  the  skies, 
Far  on  fearful  wing  she  flies, 
From  the  pomp  of  sceptred  state, 
From  the  rebel's  noisy  hate. 

In  a  cottaged  vale  she  dwells 
List'ning  to  the  Sabbath  bells  ! 
Still  around  her  steps  are  seen, 
Spotless  honor's  meeker  mien, 
Love,  the  fire  of  pleasing  fears, 
Sorrow  smiling  through  her  tears, 
And  conscious  of  the  past  employ, 
Memory,  bosc  Hi-spring  of  joy. 

TALLIEN. 

I  thank  thee,  Adelaide  !  'twas  sweet,  though  mournful, 
Put  why  thy  brow  o'ercast,  thy  cheek  so  wan  ? 
r  _>u  lookest  a  lorn  maid  beside  some  stream 
./hat  sighs  away  the  soul  in  fond  despairing, 
While  sorrow  sad,  like  the  dank  willow  near  her 
Hangs  o'er  the  troubled  fountain  of  her  eye. 

ADELAIDE. 
Oh  !  rather  let  me  ask  what  mystery  loui'S 


39°  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


On  Tallien's  darkened  brow.     Thou  dost  me  wrong — 
Thy  soul  distempered,  can  my  heart  be  tranquil  ? 

TALLIEN. 

Tell  me,  by  whom  thy  brother's  blood  was  spilt  ? 
Asks  he  not  vengeance  on  these  patriot  murderers  ? 
it  has  been  borne  too  tamely.     Fears  and  curses 
Groan  on  our  midnight  beds,  and  e'en  our  dreams 
Threaten  the  assassin  hand  of  Robespierre. 
He  dies !— nor  has  the  plot  escaped  his  fears. 

ADELAIDE. 

Yet — yet — be  cautious  I  much  I  fear  the  Commukie — 
The  tyrant's  creatures,  and  their  fate  with  his 
Fast  linked  in  indissoluble  union. 
The  pale  Convention — 

TALLIEN. 

Hate  him  as  they  fear  him, 
Impatient  of  the  chain,  resolved  and  ready. 

ADELAIDE. 
The  enthusiast  mob,  confusion's  lawless  sons — 

TALLIEN. 

They  are  weary  of  his  stern  morality, 
The  fair-masked  offspring  of  ferocious  pride. 
The  sections  too  support  the  delegates : 
All — all  is  ours  !  e'en  now  the  vital  air 
Of  Liberty,  condensed  awhile,  is  bursting 
(Force  irresistible  !)  from  its  compressure — 
To  shatter  the  arch-chemist  in  the  explosion  ! 

Enter  BILLAUD  VARENNES  and  BOURDON  L'OisE. 

[ADELAIDE  retires. 
BOURDON  L'OISE. 

Tallien  !  was  this  a  time  for  amorous  conference  ? 
Henriot,  the  tyrant's  most  devoted  creature, 
Marshals  the  force  of  Paris  :  The  fierce  club, 
With  Vivier  at  their  head,  in  loud  acclaim, 
Have  sworn  to  make  the  guillotine  in  blood 
Float  on  the  scaffold— But  who  comes  here? 

Enter  BARRERE  abruptly. 

BARRERE. 
Say,  are  ye  friends  to  freedom  ?     I  am  hers ! 


THE  FALL  OF  ROBESPIERRE.  391 


Let  us,  forgetful  of  all  common  feuds, 

Rally  around  her  shrine  !     E'en  now  the  tyrant 

Concerts  a  plan  of  instant  massacre  ! 

BILLAUD  VARENNES. 

Away  to  the  Convention  !  with  that  voice, 
So  oft  the  herald  of  glad  victory, 
Rxmse  their  fallen  spirits,  thunder  in  their  ears 
The  names  of  tyrant,  plunderer,  assassin  I 
The  violent  workings  of  my  soul  within 
Anticipate  the  monster's  blood  ! 
[Cry  from  the  street  of — '  No  Tyrant !  Down  with  the  Tyrant! 

TALLIEN. 

Hear  ye  that  outcry  ? — If  the  trembling  members 

Even  for  a  moment  hold  his  fate  suspended, 

I  swear  by  the  holy  poniard,  that  stabbed  Caesar, 

This  dagger  probes  his  heart  I  [Exeunt  omnes 


ACT  II.— BY  SOUTHEY. 
SCENE. — The  Convention.— ROBESPIERRE  mounts  the  Tribune 

ROBESPIERRE. 

Once  more  befits  it  that  the  voice  of  truth, 

Fearless  in  innocence,  though  leaguered  round 

By  envy  and  her  hateful  brood  of  hell, 

Be  heard  amid  this  hall ;  once  more  befits 

The  patriot,  whose  prophetic  eye  so  oft 

Has  pierced  through  faction's  veil,  to  flash  on  crimes 

Of  deadliest  import.     Mouldering  in  the  grave 

Sleeps  Capet's  caitiff  corse  ;  my  daring  hand 

Levelled  to  earth  his  blood-cemented  throne, 

My  voice  declared  his  guilt,  and  stirred  up  France 

To  call  for  vengeance.     I  too  dug  the  grave 

Where  sleep  the  Girondists,  detected  band  ! 

Long  with  the  show  of  freed  0111  they  abused 

Her  ardent  sons.     Long  time  the  well-turned  phrase 

The  high-fraught  sentence,  and  the  lofty  tone 

Of  declamation  thundered  in  this  hall, 

Till  reason,  'midst  a  labyrinth  of  words 


392  COLERIDGE  'S  POEMS. 

Perplexed,  in  silence  seemed  to  yield  assent. 

I  durst  oppose.     Soul  of  my  honored  friend, 

Spirit  of  Marat,  upon  thee  I  call— 

Thou  know'st  me  faithful,  know'st  with  what  warm  zeal 

I  urged  the  cause  of  justice,  stripped  the  mask 

From  faction's  deadly  visage,  and  destroyed 

Her  traitor  brood.     Whose  patriot  arm  hurled  down 

Hebert  and  Ronsin,  and  the  villain  friends 

Of  Danton,  foul  apostate  !  those,  who  long 

Marked  treason's  form  in  liberty's  fair  garb, 

Long  deluged  France  with  blood,  and  durst  defy 

Omnipotence  !     But  I  it  seems  am  false  ! 

I  am  a  traitor  too  !  I  Robespierre  ! 

I — at  whose  name  the  dastard  despot  brood 

Look  pale  with  fear,  and  call  on  saints  to  help  them  I 

Who  dares  accuse  me  ?  who  shall  dare  belie 

My  spotless  name  ?     Speak,  ye  accomplice  band  j 

Of  what  am  I  accused  ?  of  what  strange  crime 

Is  Maximilian  Robespierre  accused, 

That  through  this  hall  the  buzz  of  discontent 

Should  murmur  ?  who  shall  speak  ? 

BILLAUD  VARENNES. 

O  patriot  tongue 

Belying  the  foul  heart !     Who  was  it  urged 
Friendly  to  tyrants  that  accurst  decree, 
Whose  influence  brooding  o'er  this  hallowed  hall, 
Has  chilled  each  tongue  to  silence  ?     Who  destroyed 
The  freedom  of  debate,  and  carried  through 
The  fatal  law  that  doomed  the  delegates, 
Unheard  before  their  equals,  to  the  bar 
Where  cruelty  sat  throned,  and  murder  reigned 
With  her  Duinas  co-equal  ?     Say,  thou  man 
Of  mighty  eloquence,  whose  law  was  that  ? 

COUTHON. 

That  law  was  mine.     I  urged  it — I  proposed- 
Tiie  voice  of  France  assembled  in  her  sons 
Assented,  though  the  tame  and  timid  voice 
Of  traitors  murmured.     I  advised  that  law — 
I  justify  it.     It  was  wise  and  good. 

BARRERE. 

Oh,  wondrous  wise  and  most  convenient  too  ! 

I  have  long  marked  thee,  Robespierre — and  now 

Proclaim  thee  traitor — tyrant  1  [Loud  applauses. 


THE  FALL  OF  ROBESPIERRE.  :  393 

ROBESPIERRE. 

I  am  a  traitor  !  oh,  that  I  had  fallen 
When  Regnault  lifted  high  the  murderous  knife, 
Regnault  the  instrument  belike  of  those 
Who  now  themselves  would  fain  assassinate, 
And  legalize  their  murders.     I  stand  here 
An  isolated  patriot — hemmed  around 
By  faction's  noisy  pack  ;  beset  and  bayed 
By  the  foul  hell-hounds  who  know  no  escape 
From  justice'  outstretched  arm,  but  by  the  force 
That  pierces  through  her  breast. 

[Murmurs,  and  shouts  of — '  Down  with  the  Tyrant  I' 

ROBESPIERRE. 

Nay,  but  I  will  be  heard.     There  was  a  time 
When  Robespierre  began,  the  loud  applauses 
Of  honest  patriots  drowned  the  honest  sound. 
But  times  are  changed,  and  villany  prevails. 

COLLOT   D'HERBOIS. 

No — villany  shall  fall.  France  could  not  brook 
A  monarch's  sway — sounds  the  dictator's  name 
More  soothing  to  her  ears  ? 

BOURDON  L'OisE. 

Rattle  her  chains 

More  musically  now  than  when  the  hand 
Of  Brissot  forged  her  fetters  ;  or  the  crew 
Of  Hebert  thundered  out  their  blasphemies, 
And  Danton  talked  of  virtue  ? 

ROBESPIERRE. 

Oh,  that  Brissot 

Were  here  again  to  thunder  in  this  hall ! 
That  Hebert  lived,  and  Danton's  giant  form 
Scowled  once  again  defiance  !  so  my  soul 
Might  cope  with  worthy  foes. 

People  of  France 

Hear  me  !     Beneath  the  vengeance  of  the  law, 
Traitors  have  perished  countless  ;  more  survive  : 
The  hydra-headed  faction  lifts,  anew 
Her  daring  front,  and  fruitful  from  her  wounds, 
Cautious  from  past  defeats,  contrives  new  wiles 
Against  the  sons  of  Freedom. 

TALLIEN. 

Freedom  lives ! 
Oppression  falls — for  France  has  felt  her  chains, 


394  COLERIDG&S  POEMS. 

Has  burst  them  too.     Who  traitor-like  stept  forth 
Amid  the  hall  of  Jacobins  to  save 
Camille  Desmoulins,  and  the  venal  wretch 
D' Eglantine  ? 

ROBESPIERRE. 

I  did — for  I  thought  them  honest. 

And  Heaven  forfend  that  vengeance  e'er  should  strike, 
Ere  justice  doomed  the  blow. 

BARRERE. 

Traitor,  thou  didst. 

Yes,  the  accomplice  of  their  dark  designs, 
Awhile  didst  thou  defend  them,  when  the  storm 
Loured  at  safe  distance.     When  the  clouds  frowned  darker, 
Feared  for  yourself  and  left  them  to  their  fate. 
Oh,  I  have  marked  thee  long,  and  through  the  veil 
Seen  thy  foul  projects  ;  yes,  ambitious  man, 
Self-willed  dictator  o'er  the  realm  of  France, 
The  vengeance  thou  hast  planned  for  patriots 
Falls  on  thy  head.     Look  how  thy  brother's  deeds 
Dishonor  thine  !     He  the  firm  patriot, 
Thou  the  foul  parricide  of  Liberty ! 

ROBESPIERRE  JUN. 

Barrere — attempt  not  meanly  to  divide 
Me  from  my  brother.     I  partake  his  guilt, 
For  I  partake  his  virtue. 

ROBESPIERRE. 

Brother,  by  my  soul, 

More  dear  I  hold  thee  to  my  heart,  that  thus 
With  me  thou  dar'st  to  tread  the  dangerous  path 
Of  virtue,  than  that  nature  twined  her  cords 
Of  kindred  round  us. 

BARRERE. 
Yes,  allied  in  guilt, 

Even  as  in  blood  ye  are.    Oh,  thou  worst  wretch, 
Thou  worse  than  Sylla  !  hast  thou  not  proscribed, 
Yea,  in  most  foul  anticipation  slaughtered, 
Each  patriot  representative  of  France  ? 

BOURDON  L'OiSE. 

Was  not  young  Caesar  too  to  reign 
O'er  all  our  valiant  armies  in  the  south, 
And  still  continue  there  his  merchant  wiles  ? 


THE  FALL  OF  ROBESPIERRE.  395 

ROBESPIERRE  JUN. 

His  merchant  wiles  !     O  grant  me  patience.  Heaven  ! 
Was  it  by  merchant  wiles  I  gained  you  back 
Toulon,  when  proudly  on  her  captive  towers 
Waved  high  the  English  flag  ?  or  fought  I  then 
With  merchant  wiles,  when  sword  in  hand  I  led 
Your  troops  to  conquest  ?  fought  I  merchant-like, 
Or  bartered  I  for  victory,  when  death 
Strode  o'er  the  reeking  streets  with  giant-stride, 
And  shook  his  ebon  plumes,  and  sternly  smiled 
Amid  the  bloody  banquet  ?  when  appalled 
The  hireling  sons  of  England  spread  the  sail 
Of  safety,  fought  I  like  a  merchant  then  ? 
Oh  patience !  patience  ! 

BOURDON  L'OisE. 

How  this  younger  tyrant 
Mouths  out  defiance  to  us  !  even  so 
He  had  led  on  the  armies  of  the  south, 
Till  once  again  the  plains  of  France  were  drenched 
With  her  best  blood. 

COLLOT  D'HERBOIS. 

Till,  once  again  displayed, 
Lyons'  sad  tragedy  had  called  me  forth 
The  minister  of  wrath,  whilst  slaughter  by 
Had  bathed  in  human  blood. 

DUBOIS  GRANGE. 

No  wonder,  friend. 

That  we  are  traitors — that  our  heads  must  fall 
Beneath  the  axe  of  death  !     When  Caesar-like 
Reigns  Robespierre,  'tis  wisely  done  to  doom 
The  fall  of  Brutus.     Tell  me,  bloody  man, 
Hast  thou  not  parcelled  out  deluded  France, 
As  it  had  been  some  province  won  in  fight 
Between  your  curst  triumvirate  ?     You,  Couthon, 
Go  with  my  brother  to  the  southern  plains ; 
St.  Just,  be  yours  the  army  of  the  north  ; 
Meantime  I  rule  at  Paris. 

ROBESPIERRE. 

Matchless  knave  ! 

What — not  one  blush  of  conscience  on  thy  cheek- 
Not  one  poor  blush  of  truth  !     Most  likely  tale  1 
That  I  who  ruined  Brissot's  towering  hopes, 


396  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

I  who  discovered  Hebert's  impious  wiles, 

And  sharped  for  Danton's  recreant  neck  the  axe, 

Should  now  be  traitor  !  had  I  been  so  minded, 

Think  ye  I  had  destroyed  the  very  men 

Whose  plots  resemble  mine  !     Bring  forth  your  proofs 

Of  this  deep  treason.     Tell  me  in  whose  breast 

Found  ye  the  fatal  scroll  ?  or  tell  me  rather 

Who  forged  the  shameless  falsehood  ? 

COLLOT   D'HERBOIS. 

Ask  you  proofs  ? 
Robespierre,  what  proofs  were  asked  when  Brissot  died? 

LEGENDRE. 

What  proofs  adduced  you  when  the  Danton  died? 
When  at  the  imminent  peril  of  my  life 
I  rose,  and  fearless  of  thy  frowning  brow. 
Proclaimed  him  guiltless  ? 

ROBESPIERRE. 

I  remember  well 

The  fatal  day.     I  do  repent  me  much 
That  I  killed  Caesar  and  spared  Antony. 
But  I  have  been  too  lenient.     I  have  spared 
The  stream  of  blood,  and  now  my  own  must  flow 
To  fill  the  current.  [Loud  applau*   « 

Triumph  not  too  soon, 
Justice  may  yet  be  victor. 

Enter  ST.  JUST,  and  mounts  the  Tribune. 

ST.  JUST. 

I  come  from  the  committee — charged  to  speak 
Of  matters  of  high  import.     I  omit 
Their  orders.     Representatives  of  France, 
Boldly  in  his  own  person  speaks  St.  Just 
What  his  own  heart  shall  dictate. 

TALLIES. 

Hear  ye  this, 

Insulted  delegates  of  France  ?    St.  Just 
From  your  committee  comes — comes  charged  to  speak 
Of  matters  of  high  import — yet  omits 
Their  orders  !     Representatives  of  France, 
That  bold  man  I  denounce,  who  disobeys 
The  nation's  orders — I  denounce  St.  Just.  [Loud  applauses, 


THE  FALL  GF  ROBESPIERRE.  397 

ST.  JU8T. 
Hear  me  !  [  Violent  murmurs. 

ROBESPIERRE. 
He  shall  be  heard. 

BOURDON  L'Oiss. 

Must  we  contaminate  this  sacred  hall 
With  the  foul  breath  of  treason? 

COLLOT  D'HERBOIS. 

Drag  him  away ! 
Hence  with  him  to  the  bar. 

OOUTHON. 

Oh,  just  proceedings  J 

Robespierre  prevented  liberty  of  speech — 
And  Robespierre  is  a  tyrant !     Tallien  reigns, 
He  dreads  to  hear  the  voice  of  innocence — 
And  St.  Just  must  be  silent ! 

LEGENDRE. 

Heed  we  well 

That  justice  guide  our  actions.     No  light  import 
Attends  this  day.     I  move  St.  Just  be  heard. 

FRERON. 

Inviolate  be  the  sacred  right  of  man, 
The  freedom  of  debate.  [  Violent  applauses. 

ST.  JUST. 

I  may  be  heard  then  !  much  the  times  are  changed, 
When  St.  Just  thanks  this  hall  for  hearing  him. 
Robespierre  is  called  a  tyrant.     Men  of  France, 
Judge  not  too  soon.     By  popular  discontent 
Was  Aristides  driven  into  exile, 
Was  Phocion  murdered.     Ere  ye  dare  pronounce 
Robespierre  is  guilty,  it  befits  ye  well, 
Consider  who  accuse  him.     Tallien, 
Bourdon  of  Oise — the  very  men  denounced, 
For  that  their  dark  intrigues  disturbed  the  plan 
Of  government.     Legendre  the  sworn  friend 
Of  Danton  fallen  apostate.     Dubois  Crance, 
He  who  at  Lyons  spared  the  royalists — 
Collot  d'Herbois— 

BOURDON  L'OisE. 
What — shall  the  traitor  rear 


398  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

His  head  amid  our  tribune — and  blaspheme 
Each  patriot  ?  shall  the  hireling  slave  of  faction— 

ST.  JUST. 

I  am  of  no  one  faction.     I  contend 
Against  all  factions. 

TALLIEN. 
I  espouse  the  cause 

Of  truth.     Robespierre  on  y ester- morn  pronounced 
Upon  his  own  authority  a  report : 
To-day  St.  Just  comes  down.     St.  Just  neglects 
What  the  committee  orders,  and  harangues 
From  his  own  will.     O  citizens  of  Prance, 
I  weep  for  you — I  weep  for  my  poor  country — 
I  tremble  for  the  cause  of  Liberty, 
When  individuals  shall  assume  the  sway, 
And  with  more  insolence  than  kingly  pride 
Rule  the  republic. 

BILLAUD  VARENNES. 

Shudder,  ye  representatives  of  France, 
Shudder  with  horror.     Heririot  commands 
The  marshalled  force  of  Paris.     Henriot, 
Foul  parricide — the  sworn  ally  of  Hebert, 
Denounced  by  all — upheld  by  Robespierre. 
Who  spared  La  Valette  ?  who  promoted  him. 
Stained  with  the  deep  dye  of  nobility  ? 
Who  to  an  ex-peer  gave  the  high  command  ? 
Who  screened  from  justice  the  rapacious  thief? 
Who  cast  in  chains  the  friends  of  Liberty 2 
Robespierre,  the  self-styled  patriot  Robespierre — 
Robespierre,  allied  with  the  villain  Daubigne — 
Robespierre,  the  foul  arch-tyrant  Robespierre. 

BOURDON  L'OiSE. 

He  talks  of  virtue — of  morality — 

Consistent  patriot !  he  Daubigne's  friend  ! 

Henriot's  supporter  virtuous !  preach  of  virtue, 

Yet  league  with  villains,  for  with  Robespierre 

Villains  alone  ally.     Thou  art  a  tyrant ! 

I  style  thee  tyrant,  Robespierre.    '  [Loud  applause* 

ROBKSPIERRE. 

Take  back  the  name.     Ye  citizens  of  France — 

[  Violent  clamor.     Cries  of—1  Down  with  the  Tyrant  1 ' 


THE  FALL  OF  ROBESPIERRE.  399 

TALLIEN. 

Oppression  falls.     The  traitor  stands  appalled — 
Guilt's  iron  fangs  engrasp  his  shrinking  soul — 
He  hears  assembled  France  denounce  his  crimes  I 
He  sees  the  mask  torn  from  his  secret  sins — 
He  trembles  on  the  precipice  of  fate. 
Fallen  guilty  tyrant !  murdered  by  thy  rage 
How  many  an  innocent  victim's  blood  has  stained 
Fair  Freedom's  altar !     Sylla-like  thy  hand 
Marked  down  the  virtues,  that,  thy  foes  removed, 
Perpetual  Dictator  thou  might' st  reign, 
And  tyranize  o'er  France,  and  call  it  freedom  ! 
Long  time  in  timid  guilt  the  traitor  planned 
His  fearful  wiles — success  emboldened  sin — 
Arid  his  stretched  arm  had  grasped  the  diadem 
Ere  now,  but  that  the  coward's  heart  recoiled, 
Lest  France  awaked  shpuld  rouse  her  from  her  dream, 
And  call  aloud  for  vengeance.     He,  like  Caesar, 
With  rapid  step  urged  on  his  bold  career, 
Even  to  the  summit  of  ambitious  power, 
And  deemed  the  name  of  King  alone  was  wanting. 
Was  it  for  this  we  hurled  proud  Capet  down  ? 
Is  it  for  this  we  wage  eternal  war 
Against  the  tyrant  horde  of  murderers, 
The  crowned  cockatrices  whose  foul  venom 
Infects  all  Europe  ?  was  it  tnen  for  this 
We  swore  to  guard  our  liberty  with  life, 
That  Robespierre  should  reign  ?  the  spirit  of  freedom 
Is  not  yet  sunk  so  low.     The  glowing  flame 
That  animates  each  honest  Frenchman's  heart 
Not  yet  extinguished.     I  invoke  thy  shade, 
Immortal  Brutus  !     I  too  wear  a  dagger  j 
And  if  the  representatives  of  France, 
Through  fear  of  favor  should  delay  the  sword 
Of  justice,  Tallien  emulates  thy  virtues  j 
Tallien,  like  Brutus,  lifts  the  avenging  arm  ; 
Tallien  shall  save  his  country.  [  Violent  applauses 

BILLAUD  VERENNES. 

I  demand 

The  arrest  of  all  these  traitors.    Memorable 
Will  be  this  day  for  France. 

ROBESPIERRE. 

Yes !    Memorable 
This  day  will  be  for  France— for  villains  triumph. 


400  COLERIDGE 'S  POEMS. 

LEBAS. 

I  will  net  share  in  this  day's  damning  guilt. 

Condemn  me  too.  [Great  cry — '  Down  with  the  Tyrants.' 

[The  two  ROBESPIERRES,  COUTHON,  ST.  JUST,  and  LEBAS 
are  led  off. 


ACT  III.  (By  SOUTHEY.) 
SCENE  continues. 

COLLOT   D'HERBOIS. 

Caesar  is  fallen  !     The  baneful  tree  of  Java, 

Whose  death-distilling  boughs  dropt  poisonous  dew, 

Is  rooted  from  its  base.     This  worse  than  Cromwell, 

The  austere,  the  self-denying  Robespierre, 

Even  in  this  hall,  where  once  with  terror  mute 

We  listened  to  the  hypocrite's  harangues, 

Has  heard  his  doom. 

BILLAUD  VARENNES. 

Yet  must  we  not  suppose 

The  tyrant  will  fall  tamely.     His  sworn  hireling 
Henriot,  the  daring  desperate  Henriot 
Commands  the  force  of  Paris.     I  denounce  him. 

FRERON. 

I  denounce  Fleuriot  too,  the  mayor  of  Paris. 
Enter  DUBOIS  GRANGE. 

DUBOIS  GRANGE. 

Robespierre  is  rescued.     Henriot  at  the  head 
Of  the  armed  force  has  rescued  the  fierce  tyrant. 

COLLOT  D'HERBOIS. 
Ring  the  tocsin— call  all  the  citizens 
To  save  their  country— never  yet  has  Paris 
Forsook  the  representatives  of  France. 

TALLIEN. 

It  is  the  hour  of  danger.     I  propose 
This  sitting  be  made  permanent.  [Loud  applause*. 


THE  FALL  OF  ROBESPIERRE.  doi 

COLLOT   D'HERBOIS. 

The  national  Convention  shall  remain 
Firm  at  its  post. 

Enter  a  MESSENGER. 

MESSENGER. 

Robespierre  has  reached  the  Commune.     They  espouse 
The  tyrant's  cause.     St.  Just  is  up  in  arms ! 
St.  Just — the  young  ambitious  bold  St.  Just 
Harangues  the  mob.     The  sanguinary  Couthon 
Thirsts  for  your  blood.  [Tocsin  rings •« 

TALLIEN. 

These  tyrants  are  in  amis  against  the  law  : 
Outlaw  the  rebels. 

Enter  MERLIN  of  Douay. 

MERLIN. 

Health  to  the  representatives  of  France  ! 
I  passed  this  moment  through  the  armed  force — 
They  asked  my  name— and  when  they  heard  a  delegate, 
Swore  I  was  not  the  friend  of  France. 

COLLOT   D'HERBOIS. 

The  tyrants  threaten  us  as  when  they  turned 
The  cannon's  mouth  on  Brissot. 

Enter  another  MESSENGER. 

SECOND  MESSENGER. 
Vivier  harangues  the  Jacobins — the  club 
Espouse  the  cause  of  Robespierre. 

Enter  another  MESSENGER. 

THIRD  MESSENGER. 

All's  lost — the  tyrant  triumphs.     Henriot  leadb 
The  soldiers  to  his  aid — already  I  hear 
The  rattling  cannon  destined  to  surround 
This  sacred  hall. 

TALLIEN. 

Why,  we  will  die  like  men  then. 
The  representatives  of  France  dare  death, 
When  duty  steels  their  bosoms.  [Loud  applauset. 

TALLIEN.  (addressing  the  galleries.) 

Citizens ! 
France  is  insulted  in  her  delegates — 


4-0  2  COLE  RID  GE  'S  POEMS. 

The  majesty  of  the  republic  is  insulted— 
Tyrants  are  up  in  arms.     An  armed  force 
Threats  the  Convention.     The  Convention  swears 
To  die,  or  save  the  country  ! 

[  Violent  applauses  from  the  galleries. 

CITIZEN,  (from  above.) 
We  too  swear 
To  die  or  save  the  country.    Follow  me. 

[All  the  men  quit  the  galleries. 
Enter  another  MESSENGER. 

FOURTH  MESSENGER. 

Henriot  is  taken  ! —  [Loud  applauses. 

Henriot  is  taken.     Three  of  your  brave  soldiers 
Swore,  they  would  seize  the  rebel  slave  of  tyrants, 
Or  perish  in  the  attempt.     As  he  patrolled 
The  streets  of  Paris  stirring  up  the  mob, 
They  seized  him.  [Applauses. 

BILLAUD  VARENNES. 
Let  the  names  of  these  brave  men 
Live  to  the  future  day. 

Enter  BOURDON  L'OiSE,  sword  in  hand. 

BOURDON  L'OiSE. 
I've  cleared  the  Commune.  [Applauses. 

Through  the  throng  I  rushed, 
Brandishing  my  good  sword  to  drench  its  blade 
Deep  in  the  tyrant's  heart.     The  timid  rebels 
Gave  way.     I  met  the  soldiery — I  spake 
Of  the  dictator's  crimes — of  patriots  chained 
In  dark  deep  dungeons  by  his  lawless  rage — 
Of  knaves  secure  beneath  his  fostering  power. 
I  spake  of  Liberty.     Their  honest  hearts 
Caught  the  warm  flame.     The  general  shout  burst  forth, 
'  Live  the  Convention — Down  with  Robespierre  ! '          [Applauses. 
[Shouts  from  without — '  Down  with  the  Tyrant  1 ' 

TALLIEN. 

I  hear,  I  hear  the  soul-inspiring  sounds, 
France  shall  be  saved  !  her  generous  sons,  attached 
To  principles,  not  persons,  spurn  the  idol 
They  worshipped  once.     Yes,  Robespierre  shall  fall 
As  Capet  fell !    Oh  1  never  let  us  deem 
That  France  shall  crouch  beneath  s,  tyrant's  throne, 


THE  FALL  OF  ROBESPIERRE.  '  403 

That  the  almighty  people  who  have  broke 
On  their  oppressors'  head  the  oppressive  chain, 
Will  court  again  their  fetters  !  easier  were  it 
To  hurl  the  cloud-capt  mountain  from  its  base, 
Than  force  the  bonds  of  slavery  upon  men 

Determined  to  be  free  !  [  Applauses. 

Enter  LEGENDRE — A  pistol  in  one  hand,  keys  in  the  other. 

LEGENDRE.  (flinging  down  the  keys.} 
So — let  the  mutinous  Jacobins  meet  now 
In  the  open  air.  [Loud  applauses. 

A  factious  turbulent  party 
Lording  it  o'er  the  state  since  Danton  died, 
And  with  him  the  Cordeliers. — A  hireling  band 
Of  loud-tongued  orators  controlled  the  club 
Arid  bade  them  bow  the  knee  to  Robespierre. 
Vivier  has  'scaped  me.     Curse  his  coward  heart — 
This  fate-fraught  tube  of  Justice  in  my  hand, 
I  rushed  into  the  hall.     He  marked  mine  eye 
That  beamed  its  patriot  anger,  and  flashed  full 
With  death-denouncing  meaning.     'Mid  the  throng 
He  mingled.     I  pursued — but  staid  my  hand, 
Lest  haply  I  might  shed  the  innocent  blood.  [Applauses. 

FRERON. 

They  took  from  me  my  ticket  of  admission — 
Expelled  me  from  their  sittings. — Now,  forsooth, 
Humbled  and  trembling  re-insert  my  name. 
But  Freron  enters  not  the  club  again 
Till  it  be  purged  of  guilt— till,  purified 
Of  tyrants  and  of  traitors,  honest  men 
May  breathe  the  air  in  safety.  [Shouts  from  without. 

BARRERE. 

What  means  this  uproar  ?  if  the  tyrant  band 
Should  gain  the  people  once  again  to  rise — 
We  are  as  dead  ! 

TALLIEN. 

And  wherefore  fear  we  death  ? 
Did  Brutus  fear  it  ?  or  the  Grecian  friends 
Who  buried  in  Hipparchus'  breast  the  sword, 
And  died  triumphant  ?     Caesar  should  fear  death, 
Brutus  must  scorn  the  bugbear. 

[Shouts  from  without— (  Live  the  Convention  I ' — '  Down  with 
the  tyrants  1 ' 


404  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


TALLIEN. 

Hark  !  again 
The  sounds  of  honest  Freedom  ! 

Enter  Deputies  from  the  Sections. 

CITIZEN. 

Citizens  !  representatives  of  France  ! 
Hold  on  your  steady  course.     The  men  of  Paris 
Espouse  your  cause.     The  men  of  Paris  swear 
They  will  defend  the  delegates  of  Freedom. 

TALLIEN. 

Hear  ye  this,  Colleagues  ?  hear  ye  this,  my  brethren  ? 
And  does  no  thrill  of  joy  pervade  your  breasts? 
My  bosom  bounds  to  rapture.     I  have  seen 
The  sons  of  France  shake  oiT  the  tyrant  yoke  ; 
I  have,  as  much  as  lies  in  mine  own  arm,    . 
Hurled  down  the  usurper.— Come  death  when  it  will 
1  have  lived  long  enough.  [Shouts  without. 

BARRERE. 

Hark !  how  the  noise  increases  !  through  the  gloom 
Of  the  still  evening — harbinger  of  death 
Rings  the  tocsin  !  the  dreadful  generale 
Thunders  through  Paris. — 

[Cry  without—1  Down  with  the  Tyrants  ! ' 

Enter  LECOINTRE. 

LECOINTRE. 

So  may  eternal  justice  blast  the  foes 
Of  France  !  so  perish  all  the  tyrant  brood, 
As  Robespierre  has  perished  !     Citizens, 

Caesar  is  taken.  [Loud  and  repeated  applauses. 

I  marvel  not  that  with  such  fearless  front 
He  braved  our  vengeance,  and  with  angry  eye 
Scowled  round  the  hall  defiance.     He  relied 
On  Henriot's  aid — the  Commune's  villain  friendship, 
And  Henriot's  boughten  succor  .     Ye  have  heard 
How  Henriot  rescued  him — how  with  open  arms 
The  Commune  welcomed  in  the  rebel  tyrant — 
How  Fleuriot  aided,  and  seditious  Vivier 
Stirred  up  the  Jacobins.     All  had  been  lost — 
The  representatives  of  France  had  perished — 
Freedom  had  sunk  beneath  the  tyrant  arm 
Of  this  foul  parricide,  but  that  her  spirit 
Inspired  the  men  of  Paris.    Henriot  called 


THE  FALL  OF  ROBESPIERRE.  40$ 

'To  arms'  in  vain,  whilst  Bourdon's  patriot  voice 

Breathed  eloquence,  and  o'er  the  Jacobins 

Legend  re  frowned  dismay.     The  tyrants  fled — 

They  reached  the  Hotel.     We  gathered  round — we  called 

For  vengeance  !     Long  time,  obstinate  in  despair. 

With  knives  they  hacked  around  them.     Till  foreboding 

The  sentence  of  the  law,  the  clamorous  cry 

Of  joyful  thousands  hailing  their  destruction, 

Each  sought  by  suicide  to  escape  the  dread 

Of  death.     Lebas  succeeded.     From  the  window 

Leapt  the  younger  Robespierre,  but  his  fractured  liinb 

Forbade  to  escape.     The  self-willed  dictator 

Plunged  often  the  keen  knife  in  his  dark  breast, 

Yet  impotent  to  die.     He  lives  all  mangled 

By  his  own  tremulous  hand  !     All  gashed  and  gored 

He  lives  to  taste  the  bitterness  of  death. 

Even  now  they  meet  their  doom.     The  bloody  Couthon, 

The  fierce  St.  Just,  even  now  attend  their  tyrant 

To  fall  beneath  the  axe.     I  saw  the  torches 

Flash  on  their  visages  a  dreadful  light — 

I  saw  them  whilst  the  black  blood  rolled  adown 

Each  stern  face,  even  then  with  dauntless  eye 

Scowl  round  contemptuous,  dying  as  they  lived, 

Fearless  of  fate.  [Loud  and  repeated  applauses 

BARRERE.  (mounts  the  Tribune.} 

Forever  hallowed  be  this  glorious  day, 

When  Freedom,  bursting  her  oppressive  chain, 

Tramples  on  the  oppressor.     When  the  tyrant 

Hurled  from  his  blood-cemented  throne,  by  the  arm 

Of  the  almighty  people,  meets  the  death 

He  planned  for  thousands.     Oh  !  my  sickening  heart 

Has  sunk  within  me,  when  the  various  woes 

Of  my  brave  country  crowded  o'er  my  brain 

In  ghastly  numbers — when  assembled  hordes 

Dragged  from  their  hovels  by  despotic  power 

Rushed  o'er  her  frontiers,  plundered  her  fair  hamlets, 

And  sacked  her  populous  towns,  and  drenched  with  blood 

The  reeking  fields  of  Flanders. — When  within, 

Upon  her  vitals  preyed  the  rankling  tooth 

Of  treason  ;  and  oppression,  giant-form, 

Trampling  on  freedom,  left  the  alternative 

Of  slavery,  or  of  death.     Even  from  that  day, 

When,  on  the  guilty  Capet,  I  pronounced 

The  doom  of  injured  France,  has  faction  reared 

Her  hated  head  amongst  us.     Roland  preached 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


Of  mercy  —  the  uxorious  dotard  Roland, 

The  woman-governed  Roland  durst  aspire 

To  govern  France  ;  and  Petion  talked  of  virtue, 

And  Vergniaud's  eloquence,  like  the  honeyed  tongue 

Of  some  soft  Siren,  wooed  us  to  destruction. 

We  triumphed  over  these.     On  the  same  scaffold 

Where  the  last  Louis  poured  his  guilty  blood, 

Fell  Brissot's  head,  the  womb  of  darksome  treasons, 

And  Orleans,  villain  kinsman  of  the  Capet, 

And  Ili'bert's  atheist  crew,  whose  maddening  hand 

Hurled  down  the  altars  of  the  living  God, 

With  all  the  infidel's  intolerance. 

The  last  worst  traitor  triumphed  —  triumphed  long, 

Secured  by  matchless  villany.     By  turns 

Defending  and  deserting  each  accomplice 

As  interest  prompted.-    In  the  goodly  soil 

Of  Freedom,  the  foul  tree  of  treason  struck 

Its  deep-fixed  roots,  and  dropt  the  dews  of  death 

On  all  who  slumbered  in  its  specious  shade. 

He  wove  the  web  of  treachery.     He  caught 

The  listening  crowd  by  his  wild  eloquence, 

His  cool  ferocity  that  persuaded  murder, 

Even  whilst  it  spake  of  mercy  !  never,  never 

Shall  this  regenerated  country  wear 

The  despot  yoke.     Though  myriads  round  assail, 

And  with  worse  fury  urge  this  new  crusade 

Than  savages  have  known  ;  though  the  leagued  despot* 

Depopulate  all  Europe,  so  to  pour 

The  accumulated  mass  upon  our  coast, 

Sublime  amid  the  storm  shall  France  arise, 

And  like  the  rock  amid  surrounding  waves 

Repel  the  rushing  ocean.  —  She  shall  wield 

The  thunderbolt  of  vengeance  —  she  shall  blast 

The  despot's  pride,  and  liberate  the  world 


THE    PICCOLOMINI; 

OB,   THE 

FIRST  PART  OF  WALLENSTEIN ; 

A  DRAMA,  IN  FIVE  ACTS. 

AND  THE 

DEATH    OF    WALLENSTEINj 

A  TRAGEDY,  IN  FIVE  ACTS. 
TRANSLATED    FROM    THE    GERMAN    OF     SCHIJLLEB. 


PREFACE  OF  THE  TRANSLATOR. 

IT  was  my  intention  to  have  prefixed  a  Life  of  Walleustein  to  this  translation; 
but  I  found  that  it  must  either  have  occupied  a  space  wholly  disproportionate  to 
the  nature  of  the  publication,  or  have  been  merely  a  meagre  catalogue  of  events 
narrated  not  more  fully  than  they  already  are  in  the  play  itself.  The  recent 
translation,  likewise,  of  Schiller's  '  History  of  the  Thirty  Years'  War'  diminished 
the  motives  thereto.  In  the  translation  I  endeavored  to  render  my  Author 
literally  wherever  I  was  not  prevented  by  absolute  differences  of  idiom  ;  but  I  am 
conscious,  that  in  two  or  three  short  passages  I  have  been  guilty  of  dilating  the 
original  ;  and,  from  anxiety  to  give  the  full  meaning,  have  weakened  the  force. 
In  the  metre  I  have  availed  myself  of  no  other  liberties  than  those  which  Schiller 
had  permitted  to  himself,  except  the  occasional  breaking-up  of  the  line  by  the 
substitution  of  a  trochee  for  an  iambic  ;  of  which  liberty,  so  frequent  in  our 
tragedies,  I  find  no  instance  in  these  dramas. 

S.  T.  COLERIDGE. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 

WALLENSTEIN,  Duke  of  Friedland,  Generalissimo  of  the  Imperial  Forces  in  the 

Thirty  Years'  War. 

OCTAVIO  PICCOLOMINI,  Lieutenant-General. 

MAX.  PiccoroMiNi,  his  Son,  Colonel  of  a  Regiment  of  Cuirassiers. 
COUNT  TEBTSKY,  the  Commander  of  several  regiments,  and  Brother-in-law  of 

Walleustein. 


408  COLERIDGE 'S  POEMS. 

ILLO,  Field-Marshal,  Wallenstein's  Confidant. 

ISOLANI,  General  of  the  Croats. 

BUTLER,  an  Irishman,  Commander  of  a  regiment  of  Dragoons. 

TlEFENBACH,  1 

GOET^ARADAS'      f  Geuerals  uuder  Wallenstein. 

KOLATTO,  J 

NEUMANN,  Captain  of  Cavalry,  Aid-de-camp  to  Tertsky. 
VON  QUESTENBERG,  the  War  Commissioner,  Imperial  Envoy. 
GENERAL  WRANGEL,  Swedish  Envoy. 
BAPTISIA  SENT,  Astrologer. 

DUCHESS  OF  FRIEDLAND,  Wife  of  Walleustein. 
THEKLA,  her  Daughter,  Princess  of  Friedland. 
THE  COUNTESS  TERTSKY,  Sister  of  the  Duchess. 

A  CORNET. 

COLONELS  and  GKNERALS  (several). 

PAGES  and  ATTENDANTS  belonging  to  Wallenstein. 

ATTENDANTS  and  HOBOISTS  belonging  to  Tertsky. 

MASTER  OF  THE  CELLAR  to  Count  Tertsky. 

VALET  DE  CHAMBRE  of  Count  Piccolomini. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  I. 

An  old  Gothic  chamber  in  the  Council-house  at  Pilsen,  decorated 
with  colors  and  other  war  insignia. 

ILLO,  with  BUTLER  and  ISOLANI. 

ILLO. 

YE  have  come  late — but  ye  are  come  !     The  distance, 
Count  Isolan,  excuses  your  delay. 

ISOLANI. 

Add  this  too,  that  we  come  not  empty-handed. 
At  Donauwert*  it  was  reported  to  us, 
A  Swedish  caravan  was  on  its  way, 
Transporting  a  rich  cargo  of  provision, 
Almost  six  hundred  wagons.     This  my  Croats 
Plunged  down  upon  and  seized,  this  weighty  prize ! — 
We  bring  it  hither 

ILLO. 

Just  in  time  to  banquet 
The  illustrious  company  assembled  here. 


*  A  town  about  twelve  German  miles  N.E.  of  Ulm. 


THE  PICCOLOMINL  409 

BUTLER. 
'Tis  all  alive  !  a  stirring  scene  here  ! 

ISOLANI. 

Ay! 

The  very  churches  are  full  of  soldiers.  [Casts  Ms  eye  around. 

And  in  the  Council-house  too,  I  observe, 
You're  settled,  quite  at  home  !     Well,  well  !  we  soldiers 
Must  shift  and  suit  us  in  what  way  we  can. 

ILLO. 

We  have  the  Colonels  here  of  thirty  regiments, 
You'll  find  Count  Tertsky  here,  and  Tiefenbach, 
Kolatto,  Goetz,  Maradas,  Hinnersam, 

The  Piccolomini,  both  son  and  father 

You'll  meet  with  many  an  unexpected  greeting 
From  many  an  old  friend  and  acquaintance.     Only 
Galas  is  wanting  still,  and  Altringer. 

BUTLER. 
Expect  not  Galas ! 

ILLO.  (hesitating.} 

How  so  ?    Do  you  know^— 
ISOLANI.  (interrupting  him.} 
Max.  Piccolomini  here  ? — O  bring  me  to  him. 
I  see  him  yet  ('tis  now  ten  years  ago, 
We  were  engaged  with  Mansfield  hard  by  Dessau), 
I  see  the  youth,  in  my  mind's  eye  I  see  him, 
Leap  his  black  war-horse  from  the  bridge  adown. 
And  t'ward  his  father,  then  in  extreme  peril, 
Beat  up  against  the  strong  tide  of  the  Elbe. 
The  down  was  scarce  upon  his  chin  !     I  hear 
He  has  made  good  the  promise  of  his  youth, 
And  the  *ull  hero  now  is  finished  in  him. 

ILLO. 

You'1'  see  him  yet  ere  evening.     He  conducts 
The  Duchess  Friedland  hither,  and  the  Princess 
From  Carnthen.     We  expect  them  here  at  noon. 

BUTLER. 

Both  wife  and  daughter  does  the  Duke  call  hither  ? 
He  crowds  in  visitants  from  all  sides. 

ISOLANI. 

Hml 
So  much  the  better  !  I  had  framed  my  mind 


410  COLERIDGE  'S  POEMS. 

To  hear  of  naught  but  warlike  circumstance, 
Of  inarches,  and  attacks,  and  batteries  : 
And  lo  !  the  Duke  provides,  that  something  too 
Of  gentler  sort,  and  lovely,  should  be  present 
To  feast  our  eyes. 

ILLO.  (who  has  been  standing  in  the  attitude  of  meditation,  to 
Butler,  whom  he  leads  a  little  on  one  side.) 

And  how  came  you  to  know 
That  the  Count  Galas  joins  us  not? 

BUTLER. 

Because 
He  importuned  me  to  remain  behind. 

ILLO.  (with  warmth.} 
And  you  ? — You  hold  out  firmly  ? 

[Grasping  his  hand  with  affection. 
Noble  Butler ! 

BUTLER. 

After  the  obligation  which  the  Duke 
Had  laid  so  newly  on  me 

ILLO. 

I  had  forgotten 

A  pleasant  duty — Major-General, 
I  wish  you  joy ! 

ISOLANI. 

What,  you  mean,  of  his  regiment  ? 

I  hear,  too,  that,  to  make  the  gift  still  sweeter, 

The  Duke  has  given  him  the  very  same 

In  v/liich  he  first  saw  service,  and  since  then, 

Worked  himself,  step  by  step,  thro'  each  preferment, 

From  the  ranks  upwards.     Arid  verily,  it  gives 

A  precedent  of  hope,  a  spur  of  action 

To  the  whole  corps,  if  once  in  their  remembrance 

An  old  deserving  soldier  makes  his  way. 

BUTLKR. 

I  am  perplexed  and  doubtful,  whether  or  no 
{  dare  accept  this  your  congratulation. 
The  Emperor  has  not  yet  confirmed  th'  appointment. 

ISOLANI. 

Seize  it,  friend  !     Seize  it  !     The  hand  which  in  that  poet 
Placed  you,  is  strong  enough  to  keep  you  there, 
Spite  of  the  Emperor  and  his  Ministers  I 


THE  PICCOLOMINI.  4" 


ILLO. 

Ay  if  we  would  but  so  consider  it ! — 
If    ;e  would  all  of  us  consider  it  so  ! 
The  Emperor  gives  us  nothing ;  from  the  Duke 
Comes  all — whate'er  we  hope,  whate'er  we  have. 

ISOLANI.    (to   IllO.) 

My  noble  brother?  did  I  tell  you  how 
Jhe  Duke  will  satisfy  my  creditors  ? 
Will  be  himself  my  banker  for  the  future, 

Make  me  once  more  a  creditable  man  ! 

And  this  is  now  the  third  time,  think  of  that ! 
This  kingly-minded  man  has  rescued  me 
.From  absolute  ruin,  and  restored  my  honor. 

ILLO. 

0  that  his  power  but  kept  pace  with  his  wishes  ! 
Why,  friend  !  he'd  give  the  whole  world  to  his  soldiers. 
But  at  Vienna,  brother  ! — here's  the  grievance  ! 
What  politic  schemes  do  they  not  lay  to  shorten 

His  arm,  and,  where  they  can,  to  clip  his  pinions. 
Then  these  new  dainty  requisitions  !  these, 
Which  this  same  Questenberg  brings  hither  ! 

BUTLER. 

Ay, 
These  requisitions  of  the  Emperor 

1  too  have  heard  about  them  ;  but  I  hope 
The  Duke  will  not  draw  back  a  single  inch ! 

ILLO. 

Not  from  his  right  most  surely,  unless  first 
— From  office ! 

BUTLER,  {shocked  and  confused.} 

Know  you  aught  then  ? 
You  alarm  me. 

ISOLANI.    (at  the  same  time  with  Butler,  and  in  a  hurrying  voice.} 
We  should  be  ruined,  every  one  of  us  ! 

ILLO. 

No  more ! 

Yonder  I  see  our  worthy  friend  approaching 
With  the  Lieutenant-General,  Piccoloinini. 

BUTLER,  (shaking  his  head  significantly.) 
I  fear  we  shall  not  go  hence  as  we  came. 


412  COLERIDG&S  POEMS. 

SCENE  II. 

Enter  OCTAVIO  PICCOLOMINI  and  QuESTENBKRe. 

OCTAVIO.  (still  in  the  distance.) 
Ay,  ay !  more  still !  still  more  new  visitors  ! 
Acknowledge,  friend  !  that  never  was  a  camp,    ^ 
Which  held  at  once  so  many  heads  of  heroes. 

[Approaching  nearer 
Welcome,  Count  Isolani ! 

ISOLANI. 

My  noble  brother, 
Even  now  am  I  arrived ;  it  had  been  else  my  duty— 

OCTAVIO. 

And  Colonel  Butler— trust  me,  I  rejoice 
Thus       renew  acquaintance  with  a  man 
Whose  worth  and  services  I  know  and  honor. 
See,  see,  my  friend ! 

There  might  we  place  at  once  before  our  eyes 
The  sum  of  war's  whole  trade  and  mystery— 

[To  Questenberg,  presenting  Butler  and  Isolani  at  the  same 

time  to  him. 
These  two  the  total  sum— Strength  and  Dispatch. 

QUESTEXBERG.    (to  Octavio.) 

And  lo  !  betwixt  them  both  experienced  Prudence  ! 

OCTAVIO.  (presenting  Questenberg  to  Sutler  and  Isolani.} 
The  Chamberlain  and  War-commissioner  Questenberg, 
The  bearer  of  the  Emperor's  behests, 
The  long-tried  friend  arid  patron  of  all  soldiers, 
We  honor  in  this  noble  visitor.  [Universal  silence. 

ILLO.  (moving  towards  Questenberg.) 
'Tis  not  the  first  time,  noble  Minister, 
You  have  shown  our  camp  this  honor. 

QUESTENBERG. 

Once  before 
I  stood  before  these  colors. 

ILLO. 

Perchance,  too,  you  remember  where  that  was. 
It  was  at  Znaim  *  in  Moravia,  where 

*  A  town  not  far  distant  from  tlie  Mine-mountains,  on  the  high  road  from  Vienna  to 
Prague. 


THE  PTC  COL  OMINI.  4 1 3 


You  did  present  yourself  upon  the  part 

Of  the  Emperor,  to  supplicate  our  Duke 

That  he  would  straight  assume  the  chief  command. 

QUESTKNBERGK 

To  supplicate  ?     Nay,  noble  General  ! 

So  far  extended  neither  my  commission 

(At  least  to  my  own  knowledge)  nor  my  zeal. 

ILLO. 

Well,  well,  then — to  compel  him,  if  you  choose, 

I  can  remember  me  right  well,  Count  Tilly 

Had  suffered  total  rout  upon  the  Lech. 

Bavaria  lay  all  open  to  the  enemy, 

Whom  there  was  nothing  to  delay  from  pressing 

Onwards  into  the  very  heart  of  Austria. 

At  that  time  you  and  Werdenberg  appeared 

Before  our  General,  storming  him  with  prayers, 

And  menacing  the  Emperor's  displeasure, 

Unless  he  took  compassion  on  this  wretchedness. 

ISOLANI.    (steps  up  to  them.) 

Yes,  yes,  'tis  comprehensible  enough, 
Wherefore  with  your  commission  of  to-day 
You  were  not  all  too  willing  to  remember 
Your  former  one. 

QtJESTENBERG. 

Why  not,  Count  Isolani  ? 
No  contradiction  sure  exists  between  them. 
It  was  the  urgent  business  of  that  time 
To  snatch  Bavaria  from  her  enemy's  hand  ; 
And  my  commission  of  to-day  instructs  me 
To  free  her  from  her  good  friends  and  protectors. 

ILLO. 

A  worthy  office  !     After  with  our  blood 
We  have  wrested  this  Bohemia  from  the  Saxon, 
To  be  swept  out  of  it  is  all  our  thanks, 
The  sole  reward  of  all  our  hard  won  victories. 

QUESTENBERGK 

Unless  that  wretched  land  be  doom'd  to  suffer 

Only  a  change  of  evils,  it  must  be 

Freed  from  the  scourge  alike  of  friend  arid  foe. 


41 4  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


ILLO. 

What  ?     'Twas  a  favorable  year ;  the  Boors 
Can  answer  fresh  demands  already. 

QUESTENBERG. 

Nay, 
If  you  discourse  of  herds  and  meadow-grounds — 

ISOLANT. 

The  war  maintains  the  war.     Are  the  Boors  ruined, 
The  Emperor  gains  so  many  more  new  soldiers. 

QUESTENBERG. 

And  is  the  poorer  by  even  so  many  subjects. 

ISOLANI. 
Poh !     We  are  all  his  subjects. 

QUESTENBERG. 

Yet  with  a  difference,  General !  the  one  fill 

With  profitable  industry  the  purse, 

The  others  are  well  skilled  to  empty  it. 

The  sword  has  made  the  Emperor  poor  ;  the  plough 

Must  reinvigorate  his  resources. 

ISOLANI. 

Sure ! 

Times  are  not  yet  so  bad.     Methinks  I  see 

{Examining  with  his  eye  the  dress  and  ornaments  of  Questenberg, 
Good  store  of  gold  that  still  remains  uncoined. 

QUESTENBERG. 

Thank  Heaven  !    that  means  have  been  found  out  to  hide 
Some  little  from  the  fingers  of  the  Croats. 

ILLO. 

There  !     The  Stawata  and  the  Martinitz, 
On  whom  the  Emperor  heaps  his  gifts  and  graces, 
To  the  heart-burning  of  all  good  Bohemians — 
Those  minions  of  court  favor,  those  court  harpies, 
Who  fatten  on  the  wrecks  of  citizens 

Driven  from  their  house  and  home — who  reap  no  harvests 
Save  in  the  general  calamity — 
Who  now,  with  kingly  pomp,  insult  and  mock 
The  desolation  of  their  country — these, 
Let  these,  and  such  as  these,  support  the  war, 
The  fatal  war,  which  they  alone  enkindled  I 


THE  P2CCOLOMINL 


415 


BUTLER. 

And  those  state-parasites,  who  have  their  feet 
So  constantly  beneath  the  Emperor's  table, 
Who  cannot  let  a  benefice  fall,  but  they 
Snap  at  it  with  dog's  hunger — they,  forsooth, 
Would  pare  the  soldier's  bread,  and  cross  his  reckoning. 

ISOLANT. 

My  life  long  will  it  anger  me  to  think, 
How  when  I  went  to  court  seven  years  ago, 
To  see  about  new  horses  for  our  regiment, 
How  from  one  antechamber  to  another 
They  dragged  me  on,  and  left  me  by  the  hour 
To  kick  my  heels  among  a  crowd  of  simpering, 
Feast-fattened  slaves,  as  if  I  had  come  thither 
A  mendicant  suitor  for  the  crumbs  of  favor 
That  fall  beneath  their  tables.     And,  at  last, 
Whom  should  they  send  me  but  a  Capuchin  ! 
Straight  I  began  to  muster  up  my  sins 
For  absolution — but  no  such  luck  for  me  I 
This  was  the  man,  this  Capuchin,  with  whom 
I  was  to  treat  concerning  the  army  horses  : 
And  I  was  forced  at  last  to  quit  the  field, 
The  business  unaccomplished.     Afterwards 
The  Duke  procured  me  in  three  days,  what  I 
Could  not  obtain  in  thirty  at  Vienna. 

QUESTENBERGK 

Yes,  yes  !  your  travelling  bills  soon  found  their  way  to  us  : 
Too  well  I  know  we  have  still  accounts  to  settle. 

ILLO. 

War  is  a  violent  trade  ;  one  cannot  always 
Finish  one's  work  by  soft  means  ;  every  trifle 
Must  not  be  blackened  into  sacrilege. 
If  we  should  wait  till  you,  in  solemn  council, 
With  due  deliberation  had  selected 
The  smallest  out  of  four-and-twenty  evils, 
I'  faith  we  should  wait  long. —     . 

'  Dash  !  and  through  with  it !  ' — That's  the  better  watchword. 
Then  after  come  what  may  come.     'Tis  man's  nature 
To  make  the  best  of  a  bad  thing  once  past. 
A  bitter  and  perplexed  '  What  shall  I  do  ?  ' 
Is  worse  to  man  than  worst  necessity. 

QUESTENBERG. 

Ay,  doubtless,  it  is  true  ;  the  Duke  does  spare  u» 
The  troublesome  task  of  choosing. 


4*6  COLERIDGE 'S  POEMS. 

BUTLER. 

Yes,  the  Duke 

Cares  with  a  father's  feelings  for  his  troops  , 
But  how  the  Emperor  feels  for  us,  we  see. 

QUESTENBERGK 

His  cares  and  feelings  all  ranks  share  alike, 
Nor  will  he  offer  one  up  to  another. 

ISOLANI. 

And  therefore  thrusts  he  us  into  the  deserts, 
As  beasts  of  prey,  that  so  he  may  preserve 
His  dear  sheep  fattening  in  his  fields  at  home. 

QUESTENBERG.  (with  a  sneer.) 
Count,  this  comparison  you  make,  not  I. 

BUTLER. 

Why,  were  we  all  the  court  supposes  us, 
'Twere  dangerous,  sure,  to  give  us  liberty. 

QUESTENBERG. 

You  have  taken  liberty — it  was  not  given  you. 
And  therefore  it  becomes  an  urgent  duty 
To  rein  it  in  with  curbs. 

OCTAVIO.  (interposing  and  addressing  Questeriberg.) 

My  noble  friend, 

This  is  no  more  than  a  remembrancirig 
That  you  are  now  in  camp,  and  among  warriors 
The  soldier's  boldness  constitutes  his  freedom. 
Could  he  act  daringly,  unless  he  dared 
Talk  even  so  ?     One  runs  into  the  other. 

The  boldness  of  this  worthy  officer,  [pointing  to  Sutler. 

Which  now  has  but  mistaken  in  its  mark, 
Preserved,  when  naught  but  boldness  could  preserve  it, 
To  the  Emperor  his  capital  city,  Prague 
In  a  most  formidable  mutiny 

Of  the  whole  garrison.  •      [Military  music  at  a  distance. 

Hah  !  here  they  come ! 

ILLO. 

The  sentries  are  saluting  them  :  this  signal 
Announces  the  arrival  of  the  Duchess. 

OCTAVIO.  (to  Questeriberg.) 
Then  my  son  Max.  too  has  returned.     'Twas  he 
Fetched  and  attended  them  from  Carnthen  hither. 


THE  PICCOLOMINI.  4*7 


ISOLANI.    (to  Illo.) 

Shall  we  not  go  in  company  to  greet  them  ? 

ILLO. 
Well,  let  us  go.— Ho  !  Colonel  Butler,  come. 

(To  Octavio.) 

You'll  not  forget  that  yet  ere  noon  we  meet 
The  noble  Envoy  at  the  General's  palace. 

[Exeunt  all  but  Questeriberg  and  Octavio. 

SCENE  III. 

QUESTEXBERG  andOcTAVio. 

QUESTENBERG.      (with  signs  of  aversion  and  astonishment.) 
What  have  I  not  been  forced  to  hear,  Octavio  ! 
What  sentiments  !  what  fierce,  uncurbed  defiance  ! 
And  were  this  spirit  universal — 

OCTAVIO. 

Hm! 
You  are  now  acquainted  with  three-fourths  of  the  army. 

QUESTENBERG. 

Where  must  we  seek  then  for  a  second  host 

To  have  the  custody  of  this  ?    That  Illo 

Thinks  worse,  I  fear  me,  than  he  speaks.     And  then 

This  Butler  too — he  cannot  even  conceal 

The  passionate  working  of  his  ill  intentions. 

OCTAVIO. 

Quickness  of  temper — irritated  pride  ; 
'Twas  nothing  more.     I  cannot  give  up  Butler. 
I  know  a  spell  that  will  soon  dispossess 
The  evil  spirit  in  him. 

QUESTENBERG.  (walking  up  and  down  in  evident  disquiet.\ 

Friend,  friend  ! 

O !  this  is  worse,  far  worse,  than  we  had  suffered 
Ourselves  to  dream  of  at  Vienna.     There 
We  saw  it  only  with  a  courtier's  eyes, 
Eyes  dazzled  by  the  splendor  of  the  throne. 
We  had  not  seen  the  War-chief,  the  Commander, 
The  man  all-powerful  in  his  camp.     Here,  here, 
'Tis  quite  another  thing. 

Here  is  no  Emperor  more — the  Duke  is  Emperor. 

27 


418  COLERIDGE  'S  POEMS. 

Alas,  my  friend  !  alas,  my  noble  friend! 

This  walk  which  you  have  ta'en  me  through  the  camp 

Strikes  my  hopes  prostrate. 

OCTAVIO. 

Now  you  see  yourself 
Of  what  a  perilous  kind  the  office  is, 
Which  you  deliver  to  me  from  the  Court. 
The  least  suspicion  of  the  General 
Costs  me  my  freedom  and  my  life,  and  would 
But  hasten  his  most  desperate  enterprise. 

QUESTENBERG. 

Where  was  our  reason  sleeping  when  we  trusted 
This  madman  with  the  sword,  and  placed  such  power 
In  such  a  hand?     I  tell  you,  he'll  refuse, 
Flatly  refuse,  t'obey  the  Imperial  orders. 
Friend,  he  can  do't,  and  what  he  can,  he  will. 
And  then  th'  impunity  of  his  defiance — 
O  !  what  a  proclamation  of  our  weakness  I 

OCTAVIO. 

D'ye  think,  too,  he  has  brought  his  wife  and  daughter 
Without  a  purpose  hither  !     Here  in  camp ! 
And  at  the  very  point  of  time,  in  which 
We're  arming  for  the  war  ?    That  he  has  taken 
These,  the  last  pledges  of  his  loyalty, 
Away  from  out  the  Emperor's  domains — 
This  is  no  doubtful  token  of  the  nearness 
Of  some  eruption  ! 

QUESTENBERG. 

How  shall  we  hold  footing 
Beneath  this  tempest,  which  collects  itself 
And  threats  us  from  all  quarters?    Th'  enemy 
Of  th'  empire  on  our  Borders,  now  already 
The  master  of  the  Danube,  and  still  farther, 
And  farther  still,  extending  every  hour  ! 
In  our  interior,  the  alarum-bells 

Of  insurrection — peasantry  in  arms 

All  orders  discontented — and  the  army, 
Just  in  the  moment  of  our  expectation 
Of  aidance  from  it — lo  !  this  very  army 
Seduced,  run  wild,  lost  to  all  discipline, 
Loosened,  and  rent  asunder  from  the  state 
And  from  their  sov'reign,  the  blind  instrument 


THE  PICCOLOMINL  4*9 


Of  the  most  daring  of  mankind,  a  weapon 
Of  fearful  power,  which  at  his  will  he  wields  ! 

OCTAVIO. 

Nay,  nay,  friend  !  let  us  not  despair  too  soon. 
Men's  words  are  ever  bolder  than  their  deeds  : 
And  many  a  resolute,  who  now  appears 
Made  up  to  all  extremes,  will,  on  a  sudden, 
Find  in  his  breast  a  heart  he  wot  not  of, 
Let  but  a  single  honest  man  speak  out 
The  true  name  of  his  crime  I     Remember,  too, 
We  stand  not  yet  so  wholly  unprotected. 
Counts  Altringer  and  Galas  have  maintained 
Their  little  army  faithful  to  its  duty, 
And  daily  it  becomes  more  numerous. 
Nor  can  he  take  us  by  surprise  ;  you  know, 
I  hold  him  all  encompassed  by  my  list'ners. 
Whate'er  he  does,  is  mine,  even  while  'tis  doing- 
No  step  so  small,  but  instantly  I  hear  it ; 
Yea,  his  own  mouth  discloses  it. 

QUESTENBERQ. 

'Tis  quite 

Incomprehensible,  that  he  detects  not 
The  foe  so  near ! 

OCTAVIO. 

Beware,  you  do  not  think 
That  I  by  lying  arts,  and  complaisant 
Hypocrisy,  have  skulked  into  his  graces  ; 
Or  with  the  sustenance  of  smooth  professions 
Nourish  his  all-confiding  friendship  !     No — 
Compelled  alike  by  prudence,  and  that  duty 
Which  we  all  owe  our  country,  and  our  sovereign, 
To  hide  my  genuine  feelings  from  him,  yet 
Never  have  I  duped  him  with  base  counterfeits  ! 

QUESTENBERGK 

It  is  the  visible  ordinance  of  heaven. 

OCTAVIO. 

I  know  not  what  it  is  that  so  attracts 
And  links  him  both  to  me  and  to  my  son. 
Comrades  and  friends  we  always  were — long  habit. 
Adventurous  deeds  performed  in  company, 
And  all  those  many  and  various  incidents 


420  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


Which  store  a  soldier's  memory  with  affections 

Had  bound  us  long  and  early  to  each  other — 

Yet  I  can  name  the  day  when  all  at  once 

His  heart  rose  on  me,  and  his  confidence 

Shot  out  in  sudden  growth.     It  was  the  morning 

Before  the  memorable  fight  at  Liitzner. 

Urged  by  an  ugly  dream,  I  sought  him  out, 

To  press  him  to  accept  another  charger. 

At  distance  from  the  tents,  beneath  a  tree, 

I  found  him  in  a  sleep.     When  I  had  waked  him, 

And  had  related  all  my  bodings  to  him, 

Long  time  he  stared  upon  me,  like  a  man 

Astounded  ;  thereon  fell  upon  my  neck, 

And  manifested  to  me  an  emotion 

That  far  outstripped  the  worth  of  that  small  service. 

Since  then  his  confidence  has  followed  me 

With  the  same  pace  that  mine  has  fled  from  him. 

QUESTENBERG. 

You  lead  your  son  into  the  secret  ? 

OCTAVIO. 

No! 

QUESTENBERG. 

What !  and  not  warn  him  either  what  bad  hands 
His  lot  has  placed  him  in  ? 

OCTAVIO. 

I  must  perforce 

Leave  him  in  wardship  to  his  innocence. 
His  young  and  open  soul— dissimulation 
Is  foreign  to  its  habits  !     Ignorance 
Alone  can  keep  alive  the  cheerful  air, 
The  unembarrassed  sense  and  light  free  spirit, 
That  make  the  Duke  secure. 

QUESTEXBERG.  (anxiously.) 
My  honored  friend  I  most  highly  do  I  deem 
Of  Colonel  Piccolomini — yet — if — 
Reflect  a  little 

OCTAVIO. 
I  must  venture  it. 
Hush  1 — There  he  comes. 


THE  PICCOLOMINI.  421 


SCENE  IV. 
MAX,  PICCOLOMINI,  OCTAVIO  PICCOLOMINI,  QUESTENBERQ. 

MAX. 
Ha  !  there  he  is  himself.     Welcome  my  father ! 

[He  embraces  his  father.    As  he  turns  round,  he  observes 
Questeriberg,  and  draws  back  with  a  cold  and  reserved  air. 
You  are  engaged,  I  see.     I'll  not  disturb  you. 

OCTAVIO. 

How,  Max.  ?    Look  closer  at  this  visitor, 
Attention,  Max.,  an  old  friend  merits — Reverence 
Belongs  of  right  to  the  envoy  of  your  sovereign. 

MAX.  (dryly.) 

Von  Questenberg ! — Welcome — if  you  bring  with  you 
Aught  good  to  our  head-quarters. 

QUESTENBERG.  (seizing  his  hand.) 
Nay,  draw  not 

Your  hand  away,  Count  Piccolomini  1 
Not  on  mine  own  account  alone  I  seized  it, 
And  nothing  common  will  I  say  therewith. 

[taking  the  hands  of  both. 
Octavio — Max,  Piccolomini ! 

0  saviour  names,  and  full  of  happy  omen  ! 

Ne'er  will  her  prosperous  Genius  turn  from  Austria, 
While  two  such  stars,  with  blessed  influences' 
Beaming  protection,  shine  above  her  hosts. 

MAX. 

Heh  ! — Noble  minister  !     You  miss  your  part. 
You  came  not  here  to  act  a  panegyric. 
You're  sent,  I  know,  to  find  fault,  and  to  scold  us — 

1  must  not  be  beforehand  with  my  comrades, 

OCTAVIO.  (to  Max.) 

He  comes  from  court,  where  people  are  not  quite 
So  well  contented  with  the  duke,  as  here. 

MAX. 
What  now  have  they  contrived  to  find  out  in  him  ? 


422  COLERIDGE'S  POEAfS. 

That  he  alone  determines  for  himself 

What  he  himself  alone  doth  understand  ? 

Well,  therein  he  does  right,  and  will  persist  in't 

Heaven  never  meant  him  for  that  passive  thing 

That  can  be  struck  and  hammered  out  to  suit 

Another's  taste  and  fancy.     He'll  not  dance 

To  every  tune  of  every  minister. 

It  goes  against  his  nature — he  can't  do  it. 

He  is  possessed  by  a  commanding  spirit, 

And  his  too  is  the  station  of  command. 

And  well  for  us  it  is  so  !     There  exist 

Few  fit  to  rule  themselves,  but  few  that  use 

Their  intellects  intelligently. — Then 

Well  for  the  whole,  if  there  be  found  a  man, 

Who  makes  himself  what  nature  destined  him, 

The  pause,  the  central  point  of  thousand  thousands — 

Stands  fixed  and  stately,  like  a  firm-built  column, 

Where  all  may  press  with  joy  and  confidence. 

Now  such  a  man  is  Wallenstein  ;  and  if 

Another  better  suits  the  court — no  other 

But  such  a  one  as  he  can  serve  the  army. 

QUESTENBERG. 

The  army  ?    Doubtless ! 

OCTAVIO.  (to  Questeriberg.) 

Hush  !  suppress  it,  friend  ! 

Unless  some  end  were  answered  by  the  utterance. — 
Of  him  there  you'll  make  nothing. 

MAX.  (continuing.) 

In  their  distress 

They  call  a  spirit  up,  and  when  he  comes, 
Straight  their  flesh  creeps  and  quivers,  and  they  dread  him 
More  than  the  ills  for  which  they  called  him  up. 
The  uncommon,  the  sublime,  must  seem  and  be 
Like  things  of  every  day.— But  in  the  field, 
Ay,  there  the  Present  Being  makes  itself  felt. 
The  personal  must  command,  the  actual  eye 
Examine.     If  to  be  the  chieftain  asks 
All  that  is  great  in  nature,  let  it  be 
Likewise  his  privilege  to  move  and  act 
In  all  the  correspondencies  of  greatness. 
The  oracle  within  him,  that  which  lives, 
He  must  invoke  arid  question — not  dead  books, 
Not  ordinances,  not  mould-rotted  papers. 


THE  PICCOLOMINI.  423 

OCTAVIO. 

My  son  I  of  those  old  narrow  ordinances 

Let/us  not  hold  too  lightly.     They  are  weights 

Of  priceless  value,  which  oppressed  mankind 

Tied  to  the  volatile  will  of  their  oppressors. 

For  always  formidable  was  the  league 

And  partnership  of  free  power  with  free  will. 

The  way  of  ancient  ordinance,  tho'  it  winds, 

Is  yet  no  devious  way.     Straight  forward  goes 

The  lightning's  path,  and  straight  the  fearful  path 

Of  the  cannon-ball.     Direct  it  flies  and  rapid, 

Shatt'ring  that  it  may  reach,  and  shatt'ring  what  it  reaches. 

My  son  !   the  road  the  human  being  travels, 

That,  on  which  Blessing  comes  and  goes,  doth  follow 

The  river's  course,  the  valley's  playful  windings, 

Curves  round  the  corn-field  and  the  hill  of  vines, 

Honoring  the  holy  bounds  of  property ! 

And  thus  secure,  tho'  late,  leads  to  its  end. 

QUESTENBERG. 

O  hear  your  father,  noble  youth !  hear  him, 
Who  is  at  once  the  hero  and  the  man. 

OCTAVIO. 

My  son,  the  nursling  of  the  camp  spoke  in  thee ! 

A  war  of  fifteen  years 

Hath  been  thy  education  and  thy  school. 

Peace  hast  thou  never  witnessed  !     There  exists 

A  higher  than  the  warrior's  excellence. 

In  war  itself  war  is  no  ultimate  purpose. 

The  vast  and  sudden  deeds  of  violence, 

Adventures  wild,  and  wonders  of  the  moment, 

These  are  not  they,  my  son,  that  generate 

The  Calm,  the  Blissful,  and  th'  enduring  Mighty  ! 

Lo  there  !  the  soldier,  rapid  architect ! 

Builds  his  light  town  of  canvas,  and  at  once 

The  whole  scene  moves  and  bustles  momently, 

With  arms,  and  neighing  steeds,  and  mirth,  and  quarrel ! 

The  motley  market  fills ;  the  roads,  the  streams 

Are  crowded  with  new  freights  ;  trade  stirs  and  hurries  ! 

But  on  some  morrow  morn,  all  suddenly, 

The  tents  drop  down,  the  horde  renews  its  march. 

Dreary,  and  solitary  as  a  church-yard. 

The  meadow  and  down-trodden  seed-plot  lie, 

And  the  year's  harvest  is  gone  utterly. 


424  COLERIDGE 'S  POEMS. 

MAX. 

O  let  the  Emperor  make  peace,  my  father ! 
Most  gladly  would  I  give  the  blood-stained  laurel 
For  the  first  violet  of  the  leafless  spring, 
Plucked  in  those  quiet  fields  where  I  have  journeyed  I 

OCTAVIO. 
What  ails  thee  ?    What  so  moves  thee  all  at  once  ? 

MAX. 

Peace  have  I  ne'er  beheld  ?    I  have  beheld  it. 
From  thence  am  I  come  hither :  O  !  that  sight, 
It  glimmers  still  before  me,  like  some  landscape 
Left  in  the  distance, — some  delicious  landscape  ! 
My  road  conducted  me  thro'  countries  where 
The  war  has  not  yet  reached.     Life,  life,  my  father 
My  venerable  father,  life  has  charms 
Which  we  have  ne'er  experienced.     We  have  been 
But  voyaging  along  its  barren  coasts, 
Like  some  poor  ever-roaming  horde  of  pirates, 
That,  crowded  in  the  rank  and  narrow  ship, 
House  on  the  wild  sea  with  wild  usages, 
Nor  know  aught  of  the  main  land,  but  the  bays 
Where  safeliest  they  may  venture  a  thieves'  landing. 
Whate'er  in  the  inland  dales  the  land  conceals 
Of  fair  and  exquisite,  O!  nothing,  nothing, 
Do  we  behold  of  that  in  our  rude  voyage. 

OCTAVIO.  (attentive,  with  an  appearance  of  uneasiness.) 
And  so  your  journey  has  revealed  this  to  you  ? 

MAX. 

'Twas  the  first  leisure  of  my  life.     O  tell  me, 
What  is  the  meed  and  purpose  of  the  toil, 
The  painful  toil,  which  robbed  me  of  my  youth, 
Left  me  a  heart  unsouled  and  solitary, 
A  spirit  uninformed,  unornamented. 
For  the  camp's  stir  and  crowd  and  ceaseless  larum, 
The  neighing  war-horse,  the  air-shattering  trumpet, 
Th'  unvaried,  still-returning  hour  of  duty, 
Word  of  command,  and  exercise  of  arms — 
There's  nothing  here,  there's  nothing  in  all  this 
To  satisfy  the  heart,  the  gasping  heart ! 
Mere  bustling  nothingness,  where  the  soul  is  not — 
This  cannot  be  the  sole  felicity, 
These  cannot  be  man's  best  and  only  pleasures  1 


THE  PICCOLOMINI.  425 


OCTAVIO. 

Much  hast  thou  learnt,  my  son,  in  this  short  journey. 

MAX. 

0  !  day  thrice  lovely  !  when  at  length  the  soldier 
Returns  home  into  life  ;  when  he  becomes 
A  fellow-man  among  his  fellow-men. 
The  colors  are  unfurled,  the  cavalcade 
Marshals,  and  now  the  buzz  is  hushed,  and  hark ! 
Now  the  soft  peace-march  beats,  home,  brothers,  home ! 
The  caps  and  helmets  are  all  garlanded 
With  green  boughs,  the  last  plundering  of  the  fields. 
The  city  gates  fly  open  of  themselves. 
They  need  no  longer  the  petard  to  tear  them. 
The  ramparts  are  all  filled  with  men  and  women. 
With  peaceful  men  and  women,  that  send  onwards 
Kisses  and  welcomings  upon  the  air, 
Which  they  make  breezy  with  affectionate  gestures. 
From  all  the  towers  rings  out  the  merry  peal, 
The  joyous  vespers  of  a  bloody  day. 
O  happy  man,  O  fortunate  !  for  whom 
The  well-known  door,  the  faithful  arms  are  open, 
The  faithful  tender  arms  with  mute  embracing. 

QUESTENBERG.  (apparently  much  affected.) 

0  !  that  you  should  speak 

Of  such  a  distant,  distant  time,  and  not 
Of  the  to-morrow,  not  of  this  to-day. 

MAX.  (turning  round  to  him  quick  and  vehement.) 
Where  lies  the  fault  but  on  you  in  Vienna  ? 

1  will  deal  openly  with  you,  Questenberg. 
Just  now,  as  first  I  saw  you  standing  here, 
(I'll  own  it  to  you  freely)  indignation 
Crowded  and  pressed  my  inmost  soul  together. 
'Tis  ye  that  hinder  peace,  ye  ! — and  the  warrior, 
It  is  the  warrior  that  must  force  it  from  you. 

Ye  fret  the  General's  life  out,  blacken  him, 

Hold  him  up  as  a  rebel,  and  heaven  knows 

What  else  still  worse,  because  he  spares  the  Saxons, 

And  tries  to  awaken  confidence  in  the  enemy  ; 

Which  yet's  the  only  way  to  peace  ;  for  if 

War  intermits  not  during  war,  how  then 

And  whence  can  peace  come  ? — Your  own  plagues  fall. on  you  ! 

Even  as  I  love  what's  virtuous,  hate  1  you. 

And  here  make  I  this  vow,  here  pledge  myself  j 


426  COLERIDGE  >S  POEMS 

My  blood  shall  spurt  out  for  this  Wallenstein, 
And  my  heart  drain  off,  drop  by  drop,  ere  ye 
Shall  revel  and  dance  jubilee  o'er  his  ruin.  [Exit. 

SCENE  V. 

QUESTENBERG,  OCTAVIO  PlCCOLOMINI. 
QUESTENBERG. 

Alas,  alas  !  and  stands  it  so  ? 

[then  in  pressing  and  impatient  tone. 
What,  friend  !  and  do  we  let  him  go  away 
In  this  delusion — let  him  go  away  ? 
Not  call  him  back  immediately,  not  open 
His  eyes  upon  the  spot  ? 

OCTAVIO.  (recovering  himself  out  of  a  deep  study.) 

He  has  now  opened  mine, 
And  I  see  more  than  pleases  me. 

QUESTENBERG. 

What  is  it  ? 

OCTAVIO. 
Curse  on  this  journey ! 

QUESTENBERG. 

But  why  so?    What  is  it? 

OCTAVIO. 

Come,  come  along,  friend  \    I  must  follow  up 
The  ominous  track  immediately.     Mine  eyes 
Are  opened  now,  and  I  must  use  them.     Come ! 

[Draws  Questeriberg  on  with  him* 

QUESTENBERG. 
What  now  ?    Where  go  you  then  ? 

OCTAVIO. 

To  herself. 

QUESTENBERG. 

OCTAVIO.  (interrupting  him,  and  correcting  himself.) 
To  the  Duke.     Come,  let  us  go. — 'Tis  done,  'tis  done ! 
I  see  the  net  that'  is  thrown  over  him. 
0 !  he  returns  not  to  me  as  he  went. 


THE  PTCCOLOMINL  427 


QUESTENBERG. 

Nay,  but  explain  yourself. 

OCTAVIO. 

And  that  I  should  not 

Foresee  it,  not  prevent  this  journey.  Wherefore 
Did  1  keep  it  from  him  ? — You  were  in  the  right. 
1  should  have  warned  him  !  Now  it  is  too  late. 

QUESTENBERG. 

But  what's  too  late !     Bethink  yourself,  my  friend, 
That  you  are  talking  absolute  riddles  to  me. 

OCTAVIO.  (more  collected.) 

Come! — to  the  Duke's.     'Tis  close  upon  the  hour 
Which  he  appointed  you  for  audience.     Come  ! 
A  curse,  a  threefold  curse,  upon  this  journey  ! 

[He  leads  Questeriberg  off. 

SCENE  VI. 

Changes  to  a  spacious  chamber  in  the  house  of  the  Duke  of  Fried- 
land. — Servants  employed  in  putting  the  tables  and  chairs 
in  order. — During  this  enters  Seni,  like  an  old  Italian  doctor 
in  black,  and  clothed  somewhat  fantastically. — He  carries 
a  white  staff,  with  which  he  marks  out  the  quarters  of  the 
heaven. 

IST  SERVANT. 

Come— to  it  lads,  to  it !  Make  an  end  of  it.  I  hear  the 
sentry  call  out,  '  Stand  to  your  arms  !  '  They  will  be  there  in  a 
minute. 

2D  SERVANT. 

Why  were  we  not  told  before  that  the  audience  would  be  held 
here  ?  Nothing  prepared— no  orders— no  instructions— 

3D  SERVANT. 

Ay,  and  why  was  the  balcony-chamber  countermanded  ;  that 
with  the  great  worked  carpet  ? — there  one  can  look  about  one. 

1ST   SERVANT. 

Nay,  that  you  must  ask  the  mathematician  there.  He  says  it 
is  an  unlucky  chamber. 

2D  SERVANT. 
Poll !  stuff  and  nonsense  !      That's  what  I  call  a  hum.     A 


428  COLERIDG&S  POEMS. 


chamber  is  a  chamber ;  what  much  can  the  p^ace  signify  in  the 
affair  ? 

SENT,  (with  gravity.) 
My  son,  there's  nothing  insignificant, 
Nothing  I     But  yet  in  every  earthly  thing 
First  and  most  principal  is  place  and  time. 

1ST  SERVANT,  (to  the  Second.) 

Say  nothing  to  him,  Nat.      The  Duke  must  Jet  him  have  hit 
own  will. 

SENI.  (counts  the  chairs,  half  in  a  loud,  half  in  a  low  voice,  till 

he  comes  to  eleven,  which  he  repeats.) 
Eleven  !  an  evil  number  !     Set  twelve  chairs. 
Twelve  !  twelve  signs  hath  the  zodiac :  five  and  seven, 
The  holy  numbers,  include  themselves  in  twelve. 

3D  SERVANT. 

And  what  may  you  have  to  object  against  eleven  ?   I  should 
like  to  know  that,  now. 

SENI. 

Eleven  is — transgression  :  eleven  oversteps 
The  ten  commandments. 

,     SD  SERVANT. 
That's  good  1  and  why  do  you  call  five  a  holy  number  ? 

SENI. 

Five  is  the  soul  of  man  :  for  even  as  man 
Is  mingled  up  of  good  and  evil,  so 
The  five  is  the  first  number  that's  made  up 
Of  even  and  odd. 

SD  SERVANT. 
The  foolish  old  coxcomb  I 

IST  SERVANT. 

Ay !  let  him  alone  though.      I  like  to  hear  him  ;  there  is  more 
in  his  words  than  can  be  seen  at  first  sight. 

3D  SERVANT. 
Off !     They  come. 

2o  SERVANT. 
There  !    Out  at  the  side  door. 

[They  hurry  off,  Seni  follows  slowly.  A  page  brings  the 
staff  of  command  on  a  red  cushion,  and  places  it  on  the 
table  near  the  Duke's  chair.  They  are  announced  from 
without,  and  the  wings  of  the  door  fly  open. 


THE  PICCOLOMINL  429 


SCENE  VII. 

WALLENSTEIN,  DUCHESS. 
WALLENSTEIN. 

You  went  then  through  Vienna,  were  presented 
To  the  Queen  of  Hungary  ? 

DUCHESS. 

Yes ;  and  to  the  Empress  too  ; 
And  by  both  Majesties  were  we  admitted 
To  kiss  the  hand. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
And  how  was  it  received, 
That  I  had  sent  for  wife  and  daughter  hither 
To  the  camp,  in  winter  time  ? 

DUCHESS. 

I  did  even  that 

Which  you  commissioned  me  to  do.    I  told  them, 
You  had  determined  on  our  daughter's  marriage, 
And  wished,  ere  yet  you  went  into  the  field, 
To  show  th'  elected  husband  his  betrothed. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
And  did  they  guess  the  choice  which  I  ha  J  made  ? 

DUCHESS. 

They  only  hoped  and  wished  it  may  have  fallen 
Upon  no  foreign  nor  yet  Lutheran  noble. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
And  you— what  do  you  wish,  Elizabeth  ? 

DUCHESS. 
Your  will  you  know,  was  always  mine. 

WALLENSTEIN.  (a$er  a  pause.} 

Well,  then ! 

And  In  all  else,  of  what  kind  and  complexion 
Was  your  reception  at  the  court  ? 

[The  Duchess  casts  her  eyes  on  the  ground  and  remains 

silent. 
Hide  nothing  from  me.    How  were  you  received  ? 


43°  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

DUCHESS. 

0  !  my  dear  Lord,  all  is  not  what  it  was. 
A  canker  worm,  my  lord,  a  canker  worm 
Has  stolen  into  the  bud. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
Ay  !  is  it  HO  ? 
What,  they  were  lax  ?  they  failed  of  th'  old  respect  ? 

DUCHESS. 

Not  of  respect.     No  honors  were  omitted, 
No  outward  courtesy ;  but  in  the  place 
Of  condescending,  confidential  kindness, 
Familiar  and  endearing,  there  were  given  me 
Only  these  honors  and  that  solemn  courtesy. 
Ah  !  and  the  tenderness  which  was  put  on, 
It  was  the  guise  of  pity,  not  of  favor. 
No!  Albrecht's  wife,  Duke  Albrecht's  princely  wife, 
Count  Harrach's  noble  daughter,  should  not  so — 
Not  wholly  so  should  she  have  been  received. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Yes,  yes  ;  they  have  ta'en  offence.     My  latest  conduct, 
They  railed  at  it,  no  doubt. 

DUCHESS. 

O  that  they  had  ! 

1  have  been  long  accustomed  to  defend  you, 
To  heal  and  pacify  distempered  spirits. 

No  ;  no  one  railed  at  you.     They  wrapped  them  up, 

O  Heaven  !  in  such  oppressive,  solemn  silence  ! — 

Here  is  no  every-day  misunderstanding, 

No  transient  pique,  no  cloud  that  passes  over  ; 

Something  most  luckless,  most  unhealable, 

Has  taken  place.     The  Queen  of  Hungary 

Used  formerly  to  call  me  her  dear  aunt, 

And  ever  at  departure  to  embrace  me — 

WALLENSTEIN. 
Now  she  omitted  it  ? 

DUCHESS,  (wiping  away  her  tears,  after  a  pause.} 

She  did  embrace  me, 
But  then  first  when  I  had  already  taken 
My  formal  leave,  and  when  the  door  already 
Had  closed  upon  me,  then  did  she  come  out 
In  haste,  as  she  had  suddenly  bethought  herself, 


THE  PICCOLOMINf.  43 1 


And  pressed  me  to  her  bosom,  more  with  anguish 
Than  with  tenderness. 

WALLENSTEIN.  (seizes  her  hand  soothingly.) 

Nay  now,  collect  yourself. 
And  what  of  Eggenberg  and  Lichtenstein, 
And  of  our  other  friends  there  ? 

DUCHESS,  (shaking  her  head.) 
I  saw  none. 

W ALLEN STEIN. 

Th'  Ambassador  from  Spain,  who  once  was  wont- 
To  plead  so  warmly  for  me  ? — 

DUCHESS. 

Silent,  silent ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

These  suns  then  are  eclipsed  for  us.     Henceforward 
Must  we  roll  on,  our  own  fire,  our  own  light. 

DUCHESS. 

And  were  it — were  it,  my  dear  Lord,  in  that 
Which  moved  about  the  Court  in  buzz  and  whisper, 
But  in  the  country  let  itself  be  heard 
Aloud — in  that  which  Father  Lamormain 
In  sundry  hints  and 

WALLENSTEIN.  (eagerly.) 

Lamormain  !  what  said  he  ? 

DUCHESS. 

That  you're  accused  of  having  daringly 
O'erstepped  tbe  power  entrusted  to  you,  charged 
With  traitorous  contempt  of  th'  Emperor 
And  his  supreme  behests.     The  proud  Bavarian, 
He  and  the  Spaniards  stand  up  your  accusers. — 
That  there's  a  storin  collecting  over  you, 
Of  far  more  fearful  menace  than  that  former  one 
Which  whirled  you  headlong  down  at  Regensburg. 

And  people  talk,  said  he,  ot Ah  ! 

[stifling  extreme  emotion, 

WJLLLENSTEIN. 

Proceed ! 


432  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


DUCHESS. 
I  cannot  utter  it ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 
Proceed ! 

DUCHESS. 

They  talk 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Well! 

DUCHESS. 
Of  a  second [Catches  her  wice  and  hesitates. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
Second — 

DUCHESS. 

More  disgraceful 
Dismission . 

WALLENSTEIN. 
Talk  they  ? 

[Strides  across  the  chamber  in  vehement  agitation. 
O  !  they  force,  they  thrust  me 
With  violence,  against  my  own  will,  onward  ! 

DUCHKSS.  (presses  near  to  him,  in  entreaty.) 
O  !  if  there  yet  be  time,  my  husband  !     If 
By  giving  way  and  by  submission,  this 
Can  be  averted — my  dear  Lord,  give  way  ! 
Win  down  your  proud  heart  to  it !     Tell  that  heart, 
It  is  your  sovereign  lord,  your  Emperor, 
Before  whom  you  retreat.     O  let  no  longer 
Low  trickling  malice  blacken  your  good  meaning 
With  abhorred  venomous  glosses.     Stand  you  up, 
Shielded  and  helmed  and  weaponed  with  the  truth, 
And  drive  before  you  into  uttermost  shame 
These  slanderous  liars  !     Few  firm  friends  have  we. 
You  know  it ! — The  swift  growth  of  our  good  fortune 
It  hath  but  set  us  up,  a  mark  for  hatred. 
What  are  we,  if  the  sovereign's  grace  and  faror 
Stand  not  before  us  ! 


THE  PICCOLOMINL  433 


SCENE  VIII. 

Enter  the  Countess  Tertsky,  leading  in  her  hand  the  Princess 
Thekla,  richly  adorned  with  brilliants. 

COUNTESS,  THEKLA,  WALLENSTEIN,  DUCHESS. 

COUNTESS. 
How-  sister  ?     What  already  upon  business, 

[observing  the  countenance  of  the  Duchess. 
And  business  of  no  pleasing  kind  I  see, 
Ere  he  has  gladdened  at  his  child.     The  first 
Moment  belongs  to  joy.     Here,  Friedland  !  father  ! 
This  is  niy  daughter. 

[Thekla  approaches  with  a  shy  and  timid  air,  and  bends 
herself  as  about  to  kiss  his  hand,  he  receives  her  in  hi* 
arms,  and  remains  standing  for  some  time  lost  in  the 
feeling  of  her  presence. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Yes  ;  pure  and  lovely  hath  hope  risen  on  me  ; 
I  take  her  as  the  pledge  of  greater  fortune. 

DUCHESS. 

'Twas  but  a  little  .child  when  you  departed 
To  raise  up  that  great  army  for  the  Emperor : 
And  after  at  the  close  of  the  campaign, 
When  you  returned  home  out  of  Pomerania, 
Your  daughter  was  already  in  the  convent, 
Wherein  she  has  remained  till  now. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The  while 

We  in  the  field  here  gave  our  cares  and  toils 
To  make  her  great,  and  fight  her  a  free  way 
To  the  loftiest  of  earthly  good  ;  lo  !  mother  Nature 
Within  the  peaceful  silent  convent  walls 
Has  done  her  part,  and  out  of  her  free  grace 
Hath  she  bestowed  on  the  beloved  child 
The  godlike  ;  and  now  leads  her  thus  adorned 
To  meet  her  splendid  fortune,  and  my  hope. 

DUCHESS,  (to  Thekla.) 

Thou  wouldst  not  have  recognized  thy  father, 
Wouldst  thou,  my  child  ?     She  counted  scarce  eight  years, 
When  last  she  saw  your  face. 

9.8 


434  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS 

THEKLA. 

O  yes,  yes,  mother  i 

At  the  first  glance  ! — my  father  is  not  altered. 
The  form,  that  stands  before  me,  falsifies 
No  feature  of  the  image  that  hath  lived 
So  long  with  me  I 

WALLENSTEIN. 
The  voice  of  my  child  ! 

[then  after  a  pause. 
I  was  indignant  at  my  destiny 
That  it  denied  me  a  man-child  to  be 
Heir  of  my  name  and  of  my  prosperous  fortune, 
And  re-illume  my  soon  extinguished  being 
Jn  a  proud  line  of  princes. 
I  wronged  my  destiny.     Here  upon  this  head, 
So  lovely  in  its  maiden  bloom,  will  I 
Let  fall  the  garland  of  a  life  of  war ; 
Nor  deem  it  lost,  if  only  I  can  wreathe  it, 
Transmitted  to  a  regal  ornament, 
Around  these  beauteous  brows. 

[He  clasps  her  in  his  arms  as  Piccolomini  enters* 

SCENE  IX. 

Enter  MAX.  PICCOLOMINI,  and  some  time  after  COUNT  TEBTSKY, 
the  others  remaining  as  before. 

COUNTESS. 
There  comes  the  Palladin  who  protected  us. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Max !     Welcome,  ever  welcome  I     Always  wert  thou 
The  morning  star  of  my  best  joys  ! 

MAX. 

My  General 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Till  now  it  was  the  Emperor  who  rewarded  thee, 
I  but  the  instrument.     This  day  thou  hast  bound 
The  father  to  thee.  Max.  !  the  fortunate  father, 
And  this  debt,  Friedland's  self  must  pay. 

MAX. 

My  prince ! 

You  made  no  common  hurry  to  transfer  it. 
1  come  with  shame.     Yea,  not  without  a  pang  ! 


THE  PICCOLOMINI. 


435 


For  scarce  have  I  arrived  here,  scarce  delivered 
The  mother  and  the  daughter  to  your  arms, 
But  there  is  brought  to  me  from  your  equerry 
A  splendid  richly  plated  hunting  dress, 

So  to  remunerate  me  for  my  trouble 

Yes,  yes,  remunerate  me  1     Since  a  trouble 
It  must  be,  a  mere  office,  not  a  favor 
Which  I  leapt  forward  to  receive,  and  which 
I  came  already  with  full  heart  to  thank  you  for. 
No!    twas  not  so  intended,  that  my  business 
Should  be  my  highest,  best  good  fortune  ! 

[Tertsky  enters  and  delivers  letters  to  the  Duke  which  he 
breaks  open  hurrying  ly. 

COUNTESS,  (to  Max.} 
Remunerate  your  trouble  !     For  his  joy 
He  makes  you  recompense.     Tis  not  unfitting 
For  you,  Count  Piccolomini,  to  feel 
So  tenderly — my  brother  it  beseems 
To  show  himself  forever  great  and  princely. 

THEKLA. 

Then  I  too  must  have  scruples  of  his  love  : 
For  his  munificent  hands  did  ornament  me 
Ere  yet  the  father's  heart  had  spoken  to  ine. 

MAX. 

Yes :  'tis  his  nature  ever  to  be  giving, 
And  making  happy, 

\He  grasps  the  hand  of  the  Duchess  with  still  increasing 
warmth. 

How  my  heart  pours  out 
Its  all  of  thanks  to  him  :  O  !  how  I  seem 
To  utter  all  things  in  the  dear  name  Friedland. 
While  I  shall  live,  so  long  will  I  remain 
The  captive  of  this  name  •  in  it  shall  bloom 
My  every  fortune,  every  lovely  hope 
Inextricably  as  in  some  magic  ring 
In  this  name  hath  my  destiny  charm-bound  me  ! 

COUNTESS    (who  during  this  time  has  been  anxiously  watching  the 

Duke,  and  remarks  that  he  is  lost  in  thought  over  the  letters.} 
My  brother  wishes  us  to  leave  him.     Come. 

WALLENSTEIN-  ( turns  himself  round  quickly,  collects  himself,  and 

speaks  with  cheerfulness  to  the  Duchess.) 
Once  more  I  bid  thee  welcome  to  the  camp. 


43$  COLERIDGE  'S  POEMS. 

Thou  art  the  hostess  of  this  court.     You,  Ma*., 
Will  now  again  administer  your  old  office, 
While  we  perform  the  sovereign's  business  here. 

[Max.  Piccolomini  offers  tht  Duchess  his  arm,  the  Countess 
accompanies  the  Princess. 

TERTSKY.  (calling  after  him.} 
Max.,  we  depend  on  seeing  you  at  the  meeting. 

SCENE  X. 

WALLENSTEIN,  COUNT  TERTSKY. 

WALLENSTEIN.  (in  deep  thought  to  himself.) 
She  hath  seen  all  things  as  they  are— It  is  so, 
And  squares  completely  with  my  other  notices. 
They  have  determined  finally  in  Vienna, 
Have  given  me  my  successor  already  j 
It  is  the  king  of  Hungary,  Ferdinand, 
The  Emperor's  delicate  son  !  he's  now  their  savior, 
He's  the  new  star  that's  rising  now !     Of  us 
They  think  themselves  already  fairly  rid, 
And  as  we  were  deceased,  the  heir  already 
Is  entering  on  possession  —Therefore — despatch  ! 

[  As  he  turns  round  he  observes  Tertsky,  and  gives  him  a  letter. 
Count  Altringer  will  have  himself  excused, 
And  Galas  too — I  like  not  this  ! 

TERTSKY. 

And  if 

Thou  loiterest  longer,  all  will  fall  away, 
One  following  the  other. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Altringer 

Is  master  of  the  Tyrole  passes.     I  must  forthwith 
Send  some  one  to  him,  that  he  let  not  in 
The  Spaniards  on  me  from  the  Milanese. 

Well,  and  the  old  Sesin,  that  ancient  trader 

In  contraband  negotiations,  he 

Has  shown  himself  again  of  late.     What  brings  he 

From  the  Count  Thur  ? 

TERTSKY. 

The  Count  communicates, 
He  has  found  out  the  Swedish  chancellor 


THE  PICCOLOMINL  437 


At  Halberstadt,  where  the  convention's  held, 

Who  says,  you've  tired  him  out,  and  that  he'll  have 

No  further  dealings  with  you. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

And  why  so  ? 

TERTSKY. 

He  says  you  are  never  in  earnest  in  your  speeches; 
That  you  decoy  the  Swedes— to  make  fools  of  them, 
Will  league  yourself  with  Saxony  against  them, 
And  at  last  make  yourself  a  riddance  of  them 
With  a  paltry  sum  of  money. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

So  then,  doubtless, 

Yes,  doubtless,  this  same  modest  Swede  expects 
That  1  shall  yield  him  some  fair  German  tract 
For  his  prey  and  booty,  that  ourselves  at  last 
On  our  own  soil  and  native  territory, 
May  be  no  longer  our  own  lords  and  masters ! 
An  excellent  scheme  ! — No,  no  !     They  must  be  off, 
Off !  off !  away  ! — we  want  ne  such  neighbors. 

TERTSKY. 

Nay,  yield  them  up  that  dot,  that  speck  of  land — 
It  goes  not  from  your  portion.     If  you  win 
The  game,  what  matters  it  to  you  who  pays  it  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Off  with  them,  off  !     Thou  understand'st  not  this. 
Never  shall  it  be  said  of  me,  I  parcelled 
My  native  land  away,  dismembered  Germany, 
Betrayed  it  to  a  foreigner,  in  order 
To  come  with  stealthy  tread,  and  filch  away  . 
My  own  share  of  the  plunder. — Never  !  never ! 
No  foreign  power  shall  strike  root  in  the  empire, 
And  least  of  all  these  Goths  !  these  hunger-wolves  1 
Who  send  such  envious,  hot,  and  greedy  glances 
T'wards  the  rich  blessings  of  our  German  lands  ! 
I'll  have  their  aid  to  cast  and  draw  my  nets, 
But  not  a  single  fish  of  all  the  draught 
Shall  they  come  in  for. 

TERTSKY. 

You  will  deal,  however, 
More  fairly  with  the  Saxons  ?    They  lose  patience 


COLERIDGE  '61  POEMS. 


While  you  shift  ground  and  make  so  many  curves. 
Say,  to  what  purpose  all  these  masks  ?     Your  friends 
Are  plunged  in  doubts,  baffled,  and  led  astray  in  you. 
There's  Oxenstein,  there's  Arnheim  —  neither  knows 
What  he  should  think  of  your  procrastinations. 
A.nd  in  the  end  I  prove  the  liar  j  all 
Pass  through  me.     I  have  not  even  your  handwriting. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
I  never  give  my  handwriting  ;  thou  know'st  it. 

TERTSKY. 

But  how  can  it  be  known  that  you're  in  earnest 
If  the  act  follows  not  upon  the  word  ? 
You  must  yourself  acknowledge,  that  in  all 
Your  intercourses  hitherto  with  th'  enemy, 
You  might  have  done  with  safety  all  you  have  d(sne, 
Had  you  meant  nothing  further  than  to  gull  him 
For  th'  Emperor's  service. 

WALLENSTEIN.  (After  a  pause,  during  which  he  looks  narrowly 

on  Tertsky.) 

And  from  whence  dost  thou  know 
That  I'm  not  gulling  him  for  the  Emperor's  service? 
Whence  knowest  thou  that  I'm  not  gulling  all  of  you  ? 
Dost  thou  know  me  so  well  ?     When  made  I  thee 
Th'  intendant  of  my  secret  purposes  ? 
I  am  not  conscious  that  I  ever  opened 
My  inmost  thoughts  to  thee,     Th'  Emperor,  it  is  true. 
Hath  dealt  with  me  amiss  ;  and  if  1  would, 
I  could  repay  him  with  usurious  interest 
For  th'  evil  he  hath  done  me.     It  delights  me 
To  know  my  power  ;  but  whether  I  shall  use  it, 
Of  that,  I  should  have  thought  that  thou  couldst  speak 
No  wiselier  than  thy  fellows. 

TERTSKY. 
So  hast  thou  always  played  thy  game  with  us.  [Enter  Illo. 

SCENE    XL 
ILLO,  WALLENSTEIN,  TERTSKY. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
How  stand  affairs  without  ?    Are  they  prepared  ? 


THE  PICCOLOMINL  439 


ILLO. 

You'll  find  them  in  the  very  mood  you  wish. 
They  know  about  the  Emperor's  requisitions, 
And  are  tumultuous. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
How  hath  Isolan 
Declared  himself  ? 

ILLO. 

He's  yours  both  soul  and  body, 
Since  you  built  up  again  his  Faro-bank. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

And  which  way  doth  Kolatto  bend  ?    Hast  thou 
Made  sure  of  Tiefenbach  and  Deodate  ? 

ILLO. 
What  Piccolomini  does,  that  they  do  too. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
You  mean,  then,  I  may  venture  somewhat  with  them  ? 

ILLO. 
— If  you  are  assured  of  the  Piccolomini. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
Not  more  assured  of  mine  own  self. 

TERTSKY. 

And  yet 

I  would  you  trusted  not  so  much  to  Octavio, 
The  fox ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Thou  teachest  me  to  know  my  man  ? 
Sixteen  campaigns  I  have  made  with  that  old  warrior. 
Besides,  I  have  his  horoscope, 
We  both  are  born  beneath  like  stars — in  short 

[with  an  air  of  mystery, 
To  this  belongs  its  own  particular  aspect. 
If  therefore  thou  canst  warrant  me  the  rest 

ILLO. 

There  is  among  them  all  but  this  one  voice 
You  must  not  lay  down  the  command.     I  hear 
They  mean  to  send  a  deputation  to  you. 


440  COLERi   )GE'S  POEMS. 


If  I'm  in  aught  to  bind  myself  to  them, 
They  too  must  bind  themselves  to  me. 

ILLO. 

Of  course. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Their  words  of  honor  they  must  give,  their  oaths, 
Give  them  in  writing  to  me,  promising 
Devotion  to  my  service  unconditional. 

ILLO. 
Why  not? 

TERTSKY. 

Devotion  unconditional  ? 
The  exception  of  their  duties  towards  Austria 
They'll  always  place  among  the  premises. 
With  this  reserve 

WALLENSTEIN.    (shaking  his  head.) 

All  unconditional ! 
No  premises,  no  reserves. 

ILLO. 

A  thought  has  struck  me 
Does  not  Tertsky  give  us  a  set  banquet 
This  evening  ? 

TERTSKY. 

Yes ;  and  all  the  Generals 
Have  been  invited. 

ILLO.     (to  Wallenstein.) 

Say,  will  you  here  fully 
Commission  me  to  use  my  own  discretion  ? 
I'll  gain  for  you  the  Generals'  words  of  honor, 
Even  as  you  wish. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
Gain  me  their  signatures  ! 
How  you  come  by  them,  that  is  your  concern. 

ILLO. 

And  if  I  bring  it  to  you,  black  on  white, 
That  all  the  leaders  who  are  present  here 
Gives  themselves  up  to  you,  without  condition  ; 
Say,  will  you  then — then  will  you  show  yourself 


THE  PICCOLOMINL  44 1 


In  earnest,  and  with  some  decisive  action 
Make  trial  of  your  luck  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The  signatures ! 
Gain  me  the  signatures. 

ILLO. 

Seize,  seize  the  hour 

Ere  it  slips  from  you.     Seldom  comes  the  moment 
In  life,  which  is  indeed  sublime  and  weighty. 
To  make  a  great  decision  possible, 
O  !  many  things,  all  transient  and  all  i  ,ipid, 
Must  meet  at  once  :  and,  haply,  they  thus  met 
May,  by  that  confluence,  be  enforced  to  pause 
Time  long  enough  for  wisdom,  though  too  short, 
Far,  far  too  short  a  time  for  doubt  and  scruple  ! 
This  is  that  moment.     See,  our  army  chieftains, 
Our  best,  our  noblest,  are  assembled  round  you, 
Their  kinglike  leader !     On  your  nod  they  wait. 
The  single  threads,  which  here  your  prosperous  fortune 
Hath  woven  together  in  one  potent  web 
Instinct  with  destiny,  O  !  let  them  not 
Unravel  of  themselves.     If  you  permit 
These  chiefs  to  separate,  so  unanimous 
Bring  you  them  not  a  second  time  together. 
'Tis  the  high  tide  that  heaves  the  stranded  ship, 
And  every  individual's  spirit  waxes 
In  the  great  stream  of  multitude.     Behold, 
They  are  still  here,  here  still !     But  soon  the  war 
Burst  them  once  more  asunder,  and  in  small 
Particular  anxieties  and  interests 
Scatters  their  spirit,  and  the  sympathy 
Of  each  man  with  the  whole.     He,  who  to-day 
Forgets  himself,  forced  onward  with  the  stream, 
Will  become  sober,  seeing  but  himself, 
Feel  only  his  own  weakness,  and  with  speed 
Will  face  about,  and  march  on  in  the  old 
High  road  of  duty,  the  old  broad-trodden  road, 
And  seek  but  to  make  shelter  in  good  plight. 

WALLEJVSTEIN. 
The  time  is  not  yet  come. 

TERTSKY. 

So  you  say  always. 
But  when  will  it  be  time  ? 


442  COLERIDGE 'S  POEMS. 


WALLENSTEIN. 

When  I  shall  say  it. 

ILLO. 

You'll  wait  upon  the  stars,  and  on  their  hours, 
Till  the  earthly  hour  escapes  you.     O  !  believe  me, 
In  your  own  bosom  are  your  destiny's  stars. 
Confidence  in  yourself,  prompt  resolution, 
This  is  your  Venus  !  and  the  sole  malignant, 
The  only  one  that  harineth  you,  is  Doubt. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Thou  speakest  as  thou  understand'st.     How  oft 
And  many  a  time  I've  told  thee,  Jupiter, 
That  lustrous  god,  was  setting  at  thy  birth. 
Thy  visual  power  subdues  no  mysteries ; 
Mole-eyed,  thou  inayst  but  burrow  in  the  earth, 
Blind  as  that  subterrestrial,  who,  with  wan, 
Lead-colored  shine,  lighted  thee  into  life. 
The  common,  the  terrestrial,  thou  mayst  see, 
With  serviceable  cunning  knit  together, 
The  nearest  with  the  nearest ;  and  therein 
I  trust  thee  and  believe  thee  !  but  whatever 
Full  of  mysterious  import  Nature  weaves, 
And  fashions  in  the  depths — the  spirit's  ladder, 
That  from  this  gross  and  visible  world  of  dust 
Even  to  the  starry  world,  with  thousand  rounds, 
Builds  itself  up  ;  on  which  the  unseen  powers 
Move  up  and  down  on  heavenly  ministries — 
The  circles  in  the  circles,  that  approach 
The  central  sun  with  ever-narrowing  orbit — 
These  see  the  glance  alone,  the  unsealed  eye, 
Of  Jupiter's  glad  children  born  in  lustre. 

[He  walks  across  the  chamber,  then  returns,  and  standing 

still,  proceeds. 

The  heavenly  constellations  make  not  merely 
The  day  and  night,  summer  and  spring  ;  not  merely 
Signify  to  the  husbandman  the  seasons 
Of  sowing  and  of  harvest.     Human  action, 
That  is  the  seed  too  of  contingencies, 
Strewed  on  the  dark  land  of  futurity 
In  hopes  to  reconcile  the  powers  of  fate. 
Whence  it  behoves  us  to  seek  out  the  seed  time, 
To  watch  the  stars,  select  their  proper  hours, 
And  trace  with  searching  eye  the  heavenly  houses, 
Whether  the  enemy  of  growth  and  thriving, 


THE  P1CCOLOMINL  443 


Hide  himself  not,  malignant,  in  his  corner. 
Therefore  permit  me  my  own  time.     Meanwhile 
Do  you  your  part.     As  yet  I  cannot  say 
What  I  shall  do — only,  give  way  I  will  not. 
Depose  me  too  they  shall  not.     On  these  points 
You  may  rely. 

PAGE,  (entering) 
My  Lords  the  Generals. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
Let  them  come  in. 


SCENE  XII. 

Wallenstei/i,  Tertsky,  Illo.—To  them  enter  Questenberg,  Octavio, 
and  Max.  Piccolomini,  Butler,  Isolani,  Maradas,  and  three 
other  Generals.  Wallenstein  motions  Questenberg,  who,  in 
consequence,  takes  the  chair  directly  opposite  to  him ;  the  others 
follow,  arranging  themselves  according  to  their  rank.  There 
reigns  a  momentary  silence. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

I  have  understood,  'tis  true,  the  sum  and  import 
Of  your  instructions,  Questenberg,  have  weighed  them, 
And  formed  my  final,  absolute  resolve  ; 
Yet  it  seems  fitting,  that  the  Generals 
Should  hear  the  will  of  th'  Emperor  from  your  mouth. 
May't  please  you  then  to  open  your  commission 
Before  these  noble  Chieftains. 

QUESTENBERG. 

I  am  ready 

To  obey  you  ;  but  will  first  entreat  your  Highness, 
And  all  these  noble  Chieftains,  to  consider, 
Th'  Imperial  dignity  and  sov'reign  right 
Speaks  from  niy  mouth,  and  riot  my  own  presumption. 

WALLENSTEIN  . 
We  excuse  all  preface. 

QUESTENBERG. 
When  his  Majesty 
The  Emperor  to  his  courageous  armies 


444  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

Presented  in  the  person  of  Duke  Friedland 

A  most  experienced  and  renowned  commander, 

He  did  it  in  glad  hope  and  confidence, 

To  give  thereby  to  the  fortune  of  war 

A  rapid  and  auspicious  change.     The  onset 

Was  favorable  to  his  royal  Avishes. 

Bohemia  was  delivered  from  the  Saxons, 

The  Swede's  career  of  conquest  checked  !     These  lands 

Began  to  draw  breath  freely,  as  Duke  Friedland 

From  all  the  streams  of  Germany  forced  hither 

The  scattered  armies  of  the  enemy, 

Hither  invoked,  as  round  one  magic  circle, 

The  Rhinegrave,  Bernhard,  Banner,  Oxenstirn, 

Yea,  and  that  never-conquered  king  himself; 

Here  finally,  before  the  eye  of  Niirnberg, 

The  fearful  game  of  battle  to  decide. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
May't  please  you,  to  the  point. 

QUESTENBERQ. 

In  Nurnberg's  camp  the  Swedish  monarch  left 

His  fame — in  Liitzen's  plains  his  life.     But  who 

Stood  not  astounded,  when  victorious  Friedland 

After  this  day  of  triumph,  this  proud  day, 

Marched  towards  Bohemia  with  the  speed  of  flight, 

And  vanished  from  the  theatre  of  war ; 

While  the  young  Weimar  hero  forced  his  way 

Into  Franconia,  to  the  Danube,  like 

Some  delving  winter  stream,  which,  where  it  rushes, 

Makes  its  own  channel ;  with  such  sudden  speed 

He  marched,  and  now  at  once  'fore  Regenspurg 

Stood  to  th'  affright  of  all  good  Catholic  Christians. 

Then  did  Bavaria's  well-deserving  Prince 

Entreat  swift  aidance  in  his  extreme  need  ; 

The  Emperor  sends  seven  horsemen  to  Duke  Friedland. 

Seven  horsemen  couriers  sends  he  with  th'  entreaty ; 

He  superadds  his  own,  and  supplicates, 

Where  as  the  sovereign  lord  he  can  command. 

In  vain  his  supplication  !     At  this  moment 

The  Duke  hears  only  his  old  hate  and  grudge, 

Barters  the  general  good  to  gratify 

Private  revenge — and  so  falls  Regenspurg. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Max.,  to  what  period  of  the  war  alludes  he? 
My  recollection  fails  me  here. 


THE  P1CCOLOMINL  445 


MAX. 

He  means 
When  we  were  in  Silesia. 

WALLLENSTEIN. 

Ay  !     Is  it  so  ? 
But  what  had  we  to  do  there  ? 

MAX. 

To  beat  out 
The  Swedes  and  Saxons  from  the  province. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

True. 

In  that  description  which  the  minister  gave 
I  seemed  to  have  forgotten  the  whole  war. 
Well,  but  proceed  a  little.  [To  Questeribery 

QUESTENBERG. 

Yes !  at  length 

Beside  the  river  Oder  did  the  Duke 
Assert  his  ancient  fame.     Upon  the  fields 
Of  Steinau  did  the  Swedes  lay  down  their  arms, 
Subdued  without  a  blow.     And  here,  with  others, 
The  righteousness  of  Heaven  to  his  avenger 
Delivered  that  long  practised  stirrer-up 
Of  insurrection,  that  curse-laden  torch 
And  kindler  of  this  war,  Matthias  Thur. 
But  he  had  fallen  into  magnanimous  hands  1 
Instead  of  punishment  he  found  reward, 
And  with  rich  presents  did  the  Duke  dismiss 
The  arch-foe  of  his  Emperor. 

WALLENSTEIN.  (laughs.) 

I  know, 

I  know  you  had  already  in  Vienna, 
Your  windows  and  balconies  all  forestalled 
To  see  him  on  the  executioner's  cart. 
I  might  have  lost  the  battle,  lost  it  too 
With  infamy,  and  still  retained  your  graces — 
But,  to  have  cheated  them  of  a  spectacle, 
Oh  !  that  the  good  folks  of  Vienna  never, 
No,  never  can  forgive  me. 

QUESTENBERG. 

So  Silesia 

Was  freed,  and  all  things  loudly  called  the  Duke 
Into  Bavaria,  now  pressed  hard  on  all  sides. 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


And  he  did  put  his  troops  in  motion  ;  slowly, 

Quite  at  his  ease,  and  by  the  longest  road 

lie  traverses  Bohemia  ;  but  erfe  ever 

He  hath  once  seen  the  enemy,  faces  round, 

Breaks  up  the  march,  and  takes  to  winter  quarters. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The  troops  were  pitiably  destitute 
Of  every  necessary,  every  comfort. 
The  winter  came.     What  thinks  his  Majesty 
His  troops  are  made  of  ?     A'n't  we  men  ?  subjected 
Like  other  men  to  wet,  and  cold,  and  all 
The  circumstances  of  necessity  ? 

0  miserable  lot  of  the  poor  soldier  ! 
Wherever  he  comes  in,  all  flee  before  him, 
Arid  when  he  goes  away  the  general  curse 
Follows  him  on  his  rout.     All  must  be  seized, 
Nothing  is  given  him.     And  compelled  to  seize 
From  every  man,  he's  every  man's  abhorrence. 
Behold,  here  stand  my  Generals.     Karaffa  1 
Count  Deodate  !     Butler  I     Tell  this  man 
How  long  the  soldier's  pay  is  in  arrears. 

BUTLER. 
Already  a  full  year. 

WALLENSTETN. 
And  'tis  the  hire 

That  constitutes  the  hireling's  name  and  duties, 
The  soldier's  pay  is  the  soldier's  covenant.* 

QUESTENBERGK 

Ah !  this  is  a  far  other  tone  from  that 

In  which  the  Duke  spoke  eight,  nine  years  ago. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Yes  !  'tis  my  fault,  I  know  it :  I  myself 
Have  spoilt  the  Emperor  by  indulging  him. 
Nine  years  ago,  during  the  Danish  war, 

1  raised  him  up  a  force,  a  mighty  force, 
Forty  or  fifty  thousand  men,  that  cost  him 

*  The  original  is  not  translatable  into  English  : 

Und  3ein  sol  dot 

Mus  dem  soldatem  warden,  darnasPh  heisst  er. 
It  might  perhaps  have  been  thus  rendered  : 

'  And  that  for  which  he  sold  his  services, 
The  soldier  must  receive.' 
false  or  doubtful  etymology  is  110  more  than  a  dull  pun. 


THE  PICCOLO  At  INL  44) 


Of  his  own  purse  no  doit.    Through  Saxony 
The  fury  goddess  of  the  war  inarched  on, 
E'en  to  the  surf-rocks  of  the  Baltic,  bearing 
The  terrors  of  his  name.     That  was  a  time  ! 
In  the  whole  Imperial  realm  no  name  like  mine 
Honored  with  festival  and  celebration — 
And  Albrecht  Wallenstein,  it  was  the  title 
Of  the  third  jewel  in  his  crown ! 
But  at  the  Diet,  when  the  Princes  met 
At  Regenspurg,  there,  there  the  whole  broke  out, 
There  'twas  laid  open,  there  it  was  made  known, 
Out  of  what  money-bag  I  had  paid  the  host. 
And  what  was  now  my  thanks,  what  had  I  now, 
That  I,  a  faithful  servant  of  the  Sovereign, 
Had  loaded  on  myself  the  people's  curses, 
And  let  the  Princes  of  the  empire  pay 
The  expenses  of  this  war,  that  aggrandizes 
The  Emperor  alone — What  thanks  had  I ! 
What  ?     I  was  offered  up  to  their  complaints, 
Dismissed,  degraded ! 

QUESTENBERQ. 

But  your  Highness  knows 
What  little  freedom  he  possessed  of  action 
In  that  disastrous  Diet. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Death  and  hell ! 

/  had  that  which  could  have  procured  him  freedom. 
No  !     Since  'twas  proved  so  inauspicious  to  me 
To  serve  the  Emperor  at  the  empire's  cost, 
I  have  been  taught  far  other  trains  of  thinking 
Of  th'  empire,  and  the  Diet  of  the  empire. 
From  th'  Emperor,  doubtless,  1  received  this  staff, 
But  now  I  hold  it  as  the  empire's  General — 
For  the  common  weal,  the  universal  interest, 
And  no  more  for  that  one  man's  aggrandizement ! 
But  to  the  point.     What  is  it  that's  desired  of  mo  ? 

QUESTENBERGU 

First,  His  Imperial  Majesty  hath  willed, 
That  without  pretexts  of  delay  the  army 
Evacuate  Bohemia. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
In  this  season? 

And  to  what  quarter,  wills  the  Emperor 
That  we  direct  our  course  ? 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


QUESTENBERGK 

To  the  enemy. 

His  Majesty  resolves,  that  Regenspurg 
Be  purified  from  the  enemy  ere  Easter, 
That  Luth'ranism  may  be  no  longer  preached 
In  that  cathedral,  nor  heretical 
Defilement  desecrate  the  celebration 
Of  that  pure  festival. 

WALLENSTEIN\> 
My  Generals, 
Can  this  be  realized  ? 

ILLO. 
'Tis  not  possible. 

BUTLER. 
ft  can't  be  realized. 

QUESTENBERG. 

The  Emperor 

Hath  already  commanded  Colonel  Suys 
To  advance  toward  Bavaria. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What  did  Suys? 

QUESTENBERGK 

That  whioh  his  duty  prompted.    He  advanced? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What  ?  hj  advanced !    And  I,  his  General, 
Had  given  him  orders,  peremptory  orders, 
Not  to  desert  his  station  !     Stands  it  thus 
With  my  authority  ?     Is  this  th'  obedience 
Due  to  my  office,  which  being  thrown  aside 
No  war  can  be  conducted  ?     Chieftains,  speak! 
You  be  the  judges,  Generals  !     What  deserves 
That  officer,  who,  of  his  oath  neglectful, 
Is  guilty  of  contempt  of  orders  ? 

ILLO. 

Death. 

WALLENSTEIN.  (raising  his  voice,  as  all  but  Hlo  had  remained 

silent,  and  seemingly  scrupulous.) 
(Jovnt  Piccolomini,  what  has  he  deserved  ? 


THE  FICCOLOMINI.  449 


MAX.  (after  a  long  pause.) 
According  to  the  letter  of  the  law, 
Death, 

ISOLANI. 
Death. 

BUTLER. 

Death ,  by  the  laws  of  war. 

[Questeriberg  rises  from  his  seat,  Wallenstein  follows,  alltht 
rest  rise. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

To  this  the  law  condemns  him,  and  not  I. 
And  if  I  show  him  favor,  'twill  arise 
From  the  rev'rence  that  I  owe  my  Emperor. 

QUESTKNBERG. 

If  so,  I  can  say  nothing  further — here  ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

I  accepted  the  command  but  on  conditions  I 
And  this  the  first,  that  to  the  diminution 
Of  my  authority,  no  human  being, 
Not  even  the  Emperor's  self,  should  be  entitled 
To  do  aught,  or  to  say  aught,  with  the  army. 
If  I  stand  warranter  of  the  event, 
Placing  my  honor  and  my  head  in  pledge, 
Needs  must  I  have  full  mastery  in  all 
The  means  thereto.     What  rendered  this  Gustarui 
Resistless,  and  unconquered  upon  earth  ? 
This  :  that  he  was  the  monarch  in  his  army  ; 
A  monarch,  one  who  is  indeed  a  monarch, 
Was  never  yet  subdued  but  by  his  equal. 
But  to  the  point !     The  best  is  yet  to  coine. 
Attend  now,  generals  ! 

QUESTENBERGK 

The  Prince  Cardinal 

Begins  his  route  at  the  approach  of  spring 
From  the  Milanese  ;  and  leads  a  Spanish  army 
Thro'  Germany  into  the  Netherlands. 
That  he  may  march  secure  and  unimpeded, 
'Tis  th'  Emperor's  will,  you  grant  him  a  detachment 
Of  eight  horse-regiments  from  the  army  here. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Yes,  yee!  I  understand  !— Eight  regiments  1     Well, 

29 


450  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


Right  well  concerted,  father  Lainorinain  ! 

Eight  thousand  horse  !     Yes,  yes !     'Tis  as  it  should  be  I 

I  see  it  coming. 

QUESTENBERG. 

There  is  nothing  coming ; 

All  stands  in  front :  the  counsel  of  state-prudence, 
The  dictate  of  necessity ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What  then  ? 

What,  my  Lord  Envoy  ?    May  I  not  be  suffered 
To  understand  that  folks  are  tired  of  seeing 
The  sword's  hilt  in  my  grasp  :  and  that  your  court 
Snatch  eagerly  at  this  pretence,  and  use 
The  Spanish  title,  to  drain  off  my  forces, 
To  lead  into  the  empire  a  new  army 
Unsubjected  to  my  control.     To  throw  me 
Plumply  aside — I  am  still  too  powerful  for  you 
To  venture  that.     My  stipulation  runs, 
That  all  the  Imperial  forces  shall  obey  me 
Where'er  the  German  is  the  native  language. 
Of  Spanish  troops,  and  of  Prince  Cardinals, 
That  take  their  route,  as  visitors,  thro'  the  empire, 
There  stands  no  syllable  in  my  stipulation. 
No  syllable !     And  so  the  politic  court 
Steals  in  a  tiptoe,  and  creeps  round  behind  it ; 
First  makes  me  weaker,  then  to  be  dispensed  with, 
Till  it  dares  strike  at  length  a  bolder  blow 
And  make  short  work  with  me. 
What  need  of  all  these  crooked  ways,  Lord  Envoy  ? 
Straight-forward,  man  !     His  compact  with  me  pinches 
The  Emperor.     He  would  that  I  moved  off  ! — 
Well  !-I  will  gratify  him  !— 

[Here  there  commences  an  agitation  among  the  generals 

which  increases  continually. 
It  grieves  me  for  my  noble  officers'  sake  ! 
1  see  not  yet,  by  what  means  they  will  come  at 
The  moneys  they  have  advanced,  or  how  obtain 
The  recompense  their  services  demand. 
Still  a  new  leader  brings  new  claimants  forward, 
And  prior  merit  superannuates  quickly. 
There  serve  here  many  foreigners  in  the  army, 
Arid  were  the  man  in  all  else  brave  and  gallant, 
I  was  not  wont  to  make  nice  scrutiny 
After  his  pedigree  or  catechism. 


THE  PICCOLOMINT,  451 


This  will  be  otherwise  i'  the  time  to  come. 

Well— me  no  longer  it  concerns.  [He  seats  himself. 

MAX. 

Forbid  it,  Heaven,  tha*  it  should  come  to  this ! 
Our  troops  will  swell  iri  dreadful  fermentation — 
The  Emperor  is  abused — it  cannot  be. 

ISOLANI. 

It  cannot  be  ;  all  goes  to  instant  wreck. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

.Thou  hast  said  truly,  faithful  Isolani ! 
What  we  with  toil  and  foresight  have  built  up, 
Will  go  to  wreck — all  go  to  instant  wreck. 
What  then?  another  chieftain  is  soon  found, 
Another  army  likewise  (who  dares  doubt  it  ?) 
Will  flock  from  all  sides  to  the  Emperor 
At  the  first  beat  of  his  recruiting  drum. 

[Daring  this  speech,  Isolani,  Tertsky,  Illo,  and  Maradas 
talk  confusedly  with  great  agitation. 

MAX.  (busily  and  passionately  going  from  one  to  another,  and 

soothing  them.) 

Hear,  my  commander  !  hear  me,  Generals  ! 
Let  me  conjure  you,  Duke  !     Determine  nothing, 
Till  we  have  met  and  represented  to  you 
Our  joint  remonstrances. — Nay,  calmer  !     Friends  ! 
I  hope  all  may  be  yet  set  right  again. 

TERTSKY. 

Away  !  let  us  away  !  to  th'  antechamber 
Find  we  the  others.  [They  ga, 

BUTLER,  (to  Questenberg.) 
If  good  counsel  gain 

Due  audience  from  your  wisdom,  my  Lord  Envoy  ! 
You  will  be  cautious  how  you  show  yourself 
In  public  for  some  hours  to  come — or  hardly 
Will  that  gold  key  protect  you  from  mal-treatment. 

[Commotions  heard  from  without. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

A  salutary  counsel — Thou,  Octavio  ! 
Wilt  answer  for  the  safety  of  our  guest. 

Farewell,  Von  Questenberg !  [Questenberg  is  about  to  speak. 

Nay,  not  a  word. 


4.52  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


Not  one  word  more  of  that  detested  subject ! 
You  have  performed  your  duty — We  know  how 
To  separate  the  office  from  the  man. 

[As  Questeriberg  is  going  off  with  Octavio,  Goetz,  Tiefenbach, 
Kolatto,  press  in,  several  other  generals  following  them. 

GOETZ. 
Where's  he,  who  means  to  rob  us  of  our  General  ? 

TIEFENBACH.  (at  the  same  time.) 
What  are  we  forced  to  hear?     That  thou  wilt  leave  us  ? 

KOLATTO.  (at  the  same  time.] 
We  will  live  with  thee,  we  will  die  with  thee. 

WALLENSTEIN.  (with  stateliness,  and  pointing  to  Illo.) 
There  !  the  Field-Marshal  knows  our  will.  [Exit. 

[While  all  are  going  off  the  stage,  the  curtain  drops. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  I. 

A  small  Chamber. 
ILLO  and  TERTSKY. 

TERTSKY. 

Now  for  this  evening's  business  !     How  intend  you 
To  manage  with  the  generals  at  the  banquet  ? 

ILLO. 

Attend  !     We  frame  a  formal  declaration, 
Wherein  we  to  the  Duke  consign  ourselves 
Collectively,  to  be  and  to  remain 
His  both  with  life  arid  limb,  and  not  to  spare 
The  last  drop  of  our  blood  for  him,  provided 
So  doing  we  infringe  no  oath  or  duty 
We  may  be  under  to  the  Emp'ror. — Mark  ! 
This  reservation  we  expressly  make 
In  a  particular  clause,  and  save  the  conscience. 
Now  hear  !     This  formula  so  framed  &.nd  worded 
Will  be  presented  to  them  for  perusal 
Before  the  banquet.     No  one  will  find  in  it 
Cause  of  offence  or  scruple.    Hear  now  further  ! 


THE  PICCOLO  MINI.  453 


After  the  feast,  when  now  the  vap'ring  wine 
Opens  the  heart,  and  shuts  the  eyes,  we  let 
A  counterfeited  paper,  in  the  which 
This  one  particular  clause  has  been  left  out, 
Go  round  for  signatures. 

TERTSKY. 

How  ?  think  you  then 

That  they'll  believe  themselves  bound  by  an  oath, 
Which  we  had  tricked  them  into  by  a  juggle? 

ILLO. 

We  shall  have  caught  and  caged  them  !     Let  them  then 
Beat  their  wings  bare  against  the  wires,  and  rave 
Loud  as  they  may  against  our  treachery, 
At  court  their  signatures  will  be  believed 
Far  more  than  their  most  holy  affirmations. 
Traitors  they  are,  and  must  be  ;  therefore  wisely 
Will  make  a  virtue  of  necessity. 

TERTSKY. 

Well,  well,  it  shall  content  me  ;  let  but  something 
Be  done,  let  only  some  decisive  blow 
Set  iis  in  motion. 

ILLO. 

Besides,  'tis  of  subordinate  importance 
How,  or  how  far,  we  may  thereby  propel 
The  generals.     'Tis  enough  that  we  persuade 
The  Duke,  that  they  are  his — Let  him  but  act 
In  his  determined  mood,  as  if  he  had  them, 
And  he  will  have  them.     Where  he  plunges  in, 
He  makes  a  whirlpool,  and  all  stream  down  to  it. 

TERTSKY. 

His  policy  is  such  a  labyrinth, 
That  many  a  time  when  /  have  thought  myself 
Close  at  his  side,  he's  gone  at  once,  and  left  me 
Ignorant  of  the  ground  where  I  was  standing. 
He  lends  the  enemy  his  ear,  permits  me 
To  write  to  them,  to  Arnheim,  to  Sesina ; 
Himself  comes  forward  blank  arid  undisguised, 
Talks  with  us  by  the  hour  about  his  plans, 
And  when  I  think  I  have  him — off  at  once 
He  has  slipped  from  me,  and  appears  as  if 
He  had  no  scheme,  but  to  retain  his  place. 


454  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


ILLO, 

He  give  up  his  old  plans  !     I'll  tell  you,  friend ! 
His  soul  is  occupied  with  nothing  «lse, 
Even  in  his  sleep — they  are  his  thoughts,  his  dreams—- 
That day  by  day  he  questions  for  this  purpose 
The  motions  of  the  planets 

TERTSKY. 

Ay !  you  know 

This  night,  that  is  now  coming,  he  with  Seni 
Shuts  himself  up  in  the  astrological  tower 
To  make  joint  observations — for  I  hear, 
It  is  to  be  a  night  of  weight  and  crisis, 
And  something  great,  and  of  long  expectation, 
Is  to  make  its  procession  in  the  heaven. 

ILLO. 

Come  !  be  we  bold  and  make  despatch.     The  work 
In  this  next  day  or  two  must  thrive  and  grow 
More  than  it  has  for  years.     And  let  but  only 

Things  first  turn  up  auspicious  here  below 

Mark  what  I  say — the  right  stars  too  will  show  themselves. 
Come  to  the  generals.     All  is  in  the  glow, 
And  must  be  beaten  while  'tis  malleable. 

TERTSKY. 

Do  you  go  thither,  Illo.     I  must  stay 
And  wait  here  for  the  Countess  Tertsky.     Know, 
That  we  too  are  not  idle.     Break  one  string, 
A  second  is  in  readiness. 

ILLO. 

Yes!    Yes! 

I  saw  your  Lady  smile  with  such  sly  meaning. 
What's  in  the  wind  ? 

TERTSKY. 
A  secret.    Hush  !  she  comes.  [Exit  Illo. 

SCENE  IT. 

(The  COUNTESS  steps  out  from  a  closet.) 
COUNT  AND  COUNTESS  TERTSKY. 

TERTSKY. 

Well — is  she  coming  ? — I  can  keep  him  back 
No  longer. 


THE  PICCOLOMINT.  455 


COUNTESS. 

She  will  be  there  instantly ; 
You  only  send  him. 

TERTSKY. 

I  am  not  quite  certain, 
I  must  confess  it,  Countess,  whether  or  no 
We  are  earning  the  Duke's  thanks  hereby.     You  know 
No  ray  has  broke  out  from  him  on  this  point. 
You  have  o'erruled  me,  and  yourself  knows  best 
flow  far  you  dare  proceed. 

COUNTESS. 

I  take  it  on  me. 

[talking  to  herself,  lohile  she  is  advancing, 
Here's  no  need  of  full  powers,  and  commissions — 
My  cloudy  Duke  !  \ve  understand  each  other — 
And  without  words.     What,  could  I  not  unriddle 
Wherefore  the  daughter  should  be  sent  for  hither, 
Why  first  he,  and  no  other,  should  be  chosen 
To  fetch  her  hither  !     This  sham  of  betrothing  her 
To  a  bridegroom,*  whom  no  one  knows — No!  no  I 
This  may  blind  others  !     I  see  thro'  thee,  Brother ! 
But  it  beseems  thee  not,  to  draw  a  card 
At  such  a  game.     Not  yet ! — It  all  remains 

Mutely  delivered  up  to  my  finessing 

Well — thou  shalt  not  have  been  deceived,  Duke  Friedland ! 
In  her  who  is  thy  sister. 

SERVANT,  (enters.} 

The  commanders  I 

TERTSKY.  (to  the  Countess.) 
Take  care  you  heat  his  fancy  and  affections — 
Possess  him  with  a  reverie,  and  send  him 
Absent  and  dreaming  to  the  banquet ;  that 
He  may  not  boggle  at  the  signature. 

COUNTESS. 
Take  you  care  of  your  guests  ! — Go,  send  him  hither. 

TERTSKY. 
All  rests  upon  his  undersigning. 


*  In  Germany,  after  honorable  addresses  have  been  paid  and  formally  accepted,  the 
lovers  are  called  bride  and  bridegroom,  even  though  the  carriage  should  not  take 
place  till  years  afterwards. 


45 6  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

COUNTESS,  (interrupting  him.) 
Go  to  your  guests  !     Go 

ILLO.  (comes  back.) 
Where  art  staying,  Tertsky  ? 
The  house  is  full,  and  all  expecting  you. 

TERTSKY. 
Instantly  I  instantly !  [To  the  Countess. 

And  let  him  not 

Stay  here  too  long.     It  might  awake  suspicion 
In  the  old  man 

COUNTESS. 
A  truce  with  your  precautions  !  [Exeunt  Tertsky  and  Hlo. 


SCENE  III. 

COUNTESS,  MAX.  PICCOLOMINI. 
MAX.  (peeping  in  on  the  stage  shyly.) 
Aunt  Tertsky  !  may  I  venture  ! 

[Advances  to  the  middle  of  the  stage,  and  looks  around  him 
with  uneasiness. 

She's  not  here  I 
Where  is  she  ? 

COUNTESS. 

Look  but  somewhat  narrowly 
In  yonder  corner,  lest  perhaps  she  lie 
Concealed  behind  that  screen. 

MAX. 

There  lie  her  gloves  I 
[Snatches  at  the?n,  but  the  Countess  takes  them  herself. 
You  unkind  Lady  !     You  refuse  me  this — 
You  make  it  an  amusement  to  torment  me. 

COUNTESS. 
And  this  the  thanks  you  give  me  for  my  trouble  ? 

MAX. 

O,  if  you  felt  the  oppression  at  my  heart ! 
Since  we've  been  here,  so  to  constrain  myself — 
With  such  poor  stealth  to  hazard  words  and  glances — 
These,  these  are  not  my  habits  1 


THE  PICCOLOMINL  457 

COUNTESS. 

You  have  still 

Many  new  habits  to  acquire,  young  friend  I 
But  on  this  proof  of  your  obedient  temper 
I  must  continue  to  insist ;  and  only 
On  this  condition  can  I  play  the  agent 
For  your  concerns. 

MAX. 

But  wherefore  conies  she  not  ? 
Where  is  she  ? 

COUNTESS. 

Into  my  hands  you  must  place  it 
Whole  and  entire.     Whom  could  you  find,  indeed, 
More  zealously  affected  to  your  interest  ? 
No  soul  on  earth  must  know  it — not  your  father. 
He  must  not  above  all. 

MAX. 

Alas  !  what  danger  ? 

Here  is  no  face  on  which  I  might  concentre 
All,  the  enraptured  soul  stirs  up  within  me. 

0  Lady  !  tell  me.     Is  all  changed  around  me  ; 
Or  is  it  only  I  ? 

I  find  myself 

As  among  strangers  !     Not  a  trace  is  left 
Of  all  my  former  wishes,  former  joys. 
Where  has  it  vanished  to  ?     There  was  a  time 
When  even,  methought,  with  such  a  world  as  this 

1  was  not  discontented.     Now,  how  flat ! 
How  stale  !     No  life,  no  bloom,  no  flavor  in  it  I 
My  comrades  are  intolerable  to  me. 

My  father — Even  to  him  I  can  say  nothing. 
My  arms,  my  military  duties — O  ! 
They  are  such  wearying  toys  ! 

COUNTESS. 

But,  gentle  friend ! 

I  must  entreat  it  of  your  condescension, 
You  would  be  pleased  to  sink  your  eye,  and  favor 
With  one  short  glance  or  two  this  poor  stale  world, 
Where  even  now  much,  and  of  much  moment, 
Is  on  the  eve  of  its  completion. 

MAX. 

Something, 
I  can't  but  know,  is  going  forward  round  me. 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


f  see  it  gathering,  crowding,  driving  on, 

In  wild  uncustomary  movements.     Well, 

In  due  time,  doubtless,  it  will  reach  even  me. 

Where  think  you  I  have  been,  dear  Lady  ?    Nay, 

No  raillery.     The  turmoil  of  the  camp, 

The  spring-tide  of  acquaintance  rolling  in, 

The  pointless  jest,  the  empty  conversation, 

Oppressed  and  stifled  me.     I  gasped  for  air — 

1  could  not  breathe — I  was  constrained  to  fly, 

To  seek  a  silence  out  for  my  full  heart ; 

And  a  pure  spot  wherein  to  feel  my  happiness. 

No  smiling,  Countess  !     In  the  church  was  I. 

There  is  a  cloister  here  to  the  heaven's  gate,* 

Thither  I  went,  there  found  myself  alone. 

Over  the  altar  hung  a  holy  mother  ; 

A  wretched  painting  'twas,  yet  'twas  the  friend 

That  I  was  seeking  in  this  moment.     Ah, 

How  oft  have  I  beheld  that  glorious  form 

In  splendor,  'mid  ecstatic  worshippers, 

Yet  still  it  moved  me  not !  arid  now  at  once 

Was  my  devotion  cloudless  as  my  love. 

COUNTESS. 

Enjoy  your  fortune  and  felicity ! 

Forget  the  world  around  you.     Meantime,  friendship 
Shall  keep  strict  vigils  for  you,  anxious,  active. 
Only  be  manageable  when  that  friendship 
Points  you  the  road  to  full  accomplishment. 
How  long  may  it  be  since  you  declared  your  passion  ? 

MAX. 
This  morning  did  I  hazard  the  first  word. 

COUNTESS. 
This  morning  the  first  in  twenty  days  ? 

MAX. 

'Twas  at  that  hunting-castle,  betwixt  here 
And  Nepomuck,  where  you  had  joined  us,  and — 
That  was  the  last  relay  of  the  whole  journey  I 
In  a  balcony  we  were  standing  mute, 
And  gazing  out  upon  the  dreary  field  : 

*  I  am  doubtful  whether  this  he  the  dedication  of  the  cloister,  or  the  name  of  one  of 
the  city  gates,  near  which  it  stood.  I  have  translated  it  in  the  former  sense  ;  but  fear- 
ful  of  having  made  some  blunder,  1  add  the  original  :— 

Es  1st  ein  Kloster  hier  zitr  Ilimmelsp/orte. 


THE  PICCOLOMINI.  459 


Before  us  the  dragoons  were  riding  onward, 

The  safe-guard  which  the  Duke  had  sent  us — heavy 

The  inquietude  of  parting  lay  upon  me, 

And  trembling  ventured  I  at  length  these  words : 

This  all  reminds  me,  noble  maiden,  that 

To-day  I  must  take  leave  of  my  good  fortune. 

A  few  hours  more,  and  you  will  find  a  father, 

Will  see  yourself  surrounded  by  new  friends, 

Awl  I  henceforth  shall  be  but  as  a  stranger, 

L  >st  in  the  many — '  Speak  with  my  aunt  Tertsky! ' 

With  hurrying  voice  she  interrupted  me. 

She  faltered.     I  beheld  a  glowing  red 

Possess  her  beautiful  cheeks,  and  from  the  ground 

Raised  slowly  up,  her  eye  met  mine — no  longer 

Did  1  control  myself. 

[The  Princess  Thekla  appears  at  the  door,  and  remains  stand- 
ing,  observed  by  the  Countess,  but  not  by  Piccolomini. 

With  instant  boldness 

I  caught  her  in  my  arms,  my  mouth  touched  hers  ; 
There  was  a  rustling  in  the  room  close  by  ; 
It  parted  us — 'Twas  you.     What  since  has  happened, 
You  know. 

COUNTESS,     (after  a  pause,  with  a  stolen  glance  at  Thekla.) 

And  is  it  your  excess  of  modesty  ; 
Or  are  you  so  incurious,  that  you  do  not 
Ask  me  too  of  my  secret  ? 

MAX. 
Of  yo ur  secret  ? 

COUNTESS. 

Why,  yes  !     When  in  the  instant  after  you 
I  stepped  into  the  room,  and  found  my'niece  there, 
What  she  in  this  first  moment  of  the  heart, 
Ta'en  with  surprise — 

MAX.     (with  eagerness.) 

Well! 

SCENE   IV. 

THEKLA  (hurries  forward) ,  COUNTESS,  MAX.  PICCOLOMINI. 

THEKLA.     (to  the  Countess). 
Spare  yourself  the  trouble. 
That  hears  he  better  from  myself. 


460  CCLERIDG-ES  POEMS. 

MAX.    (stepping  backward.) 

My  Princess  ! 
What  have  you  let  her  hear  me  say,  aunt  Tertsky  I 

THEKLA.     (to  the  Countess.) 
Has  he  been  here  long  ? 

COUNTESS. 

Yes  ;  and  soon  must  go. 
Where  have  you  stayed  so  long  ? 

THEKLA. 

Alas  !  my  mother 

Wept  so  again  !  and  I — I  see  her  suffer, 
Yet  cannot  keep  myself  from  being  happy. 

MAX. 

Now  once  again  I  have  courage  to  look  on  you, 
To-day  at  noon  I  could  not. 
The  dazzle  of  the  jewels  that  played  round  you 
Hid  the  beloved  from  me. 

THEKLA. 

Then  you  saw  me 
With  your  eye  only — and  not  with  your  heart  ? 

MAX. 

This  morning,  when  I  found  you  in  the  circle 
Of  all  your  kindred,  in  your  father's  arms, 
Beheld  myself  an  alien  in  this  circle, 
0  !  what  an  impulse  felt  I  in  that  moment 
To  fall  upon  his  neck,  to  call  him  father  ! 
But  his  stern  eye  o'erpowered  the  swelling  passion — 
It  dared  not  but  be  silent.     And  those  brilliants, 
That  like  a  crown  of  stars  en  wreathed  your  brows, 
They  scared  me  too  !     O  wherefore,  wherefore  should  he 
At  the  first  meeting  spread  as  'twere  the  bann 
Of  excommunication  round  you,  wherefore 
Press  up  the  angel  as  for  sacrifice, 
And  cast  upon  the  light  and  joyous  heart 
The  mournful  burthen  of  his  station  ?     Fitly 
May  love  dare  woo  for  love  ;  but  such  a  splendor 
Might  none  but  monarchs  venture  to  approach. 

THEKLA. 

Hush  !  not  a  word  more  of  this  mummery, 
You  see  how  soon  the  burthen  is  thrown  off. 


THE  PICCOLOMINI.  461 

He  is  not  in  spirits.     Wherefore  is  he  not  ?  [to  the  Countess, 

'Tis  you,  aunt,  that  have  made  him  all  so  gloomy  ! 

He  had  quite  another  nature  on  the  journey — 

So  calm,  so  bright,  so  joyous,  eloquent. 

It  was  my  wish  to  see  you  always  so,  [to  Max. 

And  never  otherwise  ! 

MAX. 

You  find  yourself 

In  your  great  father's  arms,  beloved  lady ! 
All  in  a  new  world,  which  does  homage  to  you, 
And  which,  were't  only  by  its  novelty, 
Delights  your  eye. 

THEKLA. 

Yes ;  I  confess  to  you 

That  many  things  delight  me  here  :  this  camp, 
This  motley  stage  of  warriors  which  renews 
So  manifold  the  image  of  my  fancy, 
And  binds  to  life,  binds  to  reality, 
What  hitherto  had  but  been  present  to  me 
As  a  sweet  dream  ! 

MAX. 

Alas !  not  so  to  me. 
It  makes  a  dream  of  my  reality. 
Upon  some  island  in  the  ethereal  heights 
I've  lived  for  these  last  days.     This  mass  of  men 
Forces  me  down  to  earth.     It  is  a  bridge 
That,  reconducting  to  my  former  life, 
Divides  me  and  my  heaven. 

THEKLA. 

The  game  of  life 

Looks  cheerful,  when  one  carries  in  one's  heart 
The  unalienable  treasure.     'Tis  a  game, 
Which  having  once  reviewed,  I  turn  more  joyous 
Back  to  my  deeper  and  appropriate  bliss. 

[breaking  off  and  in  a  sportive  tone, 
In  this  short  time  that  I've  been  present  here, 
What  new  unheard  of  things  have  I  not  seen  ? 
And  yet  they  all  must  give  place  to  the  wonder 
Which  this  mysterious  castle  guards. 

COUNTESS,    (recollecting.) 

And  what 

Can  this  be  then  ?     Methought  I  was  acquainted 
With  all  the  dusky  corners  of  this  house. 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


THEKLA.    (smiling.) 

Ay,  but  the  road  thereto  is  watched  by  spirits, 
Two  griffins  still  stand  sentry  at  the  door. 

COUNTESS,    (laughs.) 
The  astrological  tower ! — How  happens  it 
That  this  same  sanctuary,  whose  access, 
Is  to  all  others  so  impracticable, 
Opens  before  you  e'en  at  your  approach  ? 

THEKLA. 

A  dwarfish  old  man  with  a  friendly  face 
And  snow-white  hairs,  whose  gracious  services 
Were  mine  at  first  sight,  open  me  the  doors. 

MAX. 
That  is  the  Duke's  astrologer,  old  Seni. 

THEKLA. 

He  questioned  me  on  many  points  ;  for  instance, 
When  I  was  born,  what  month,  and  on  what  day, 
Whether  by  day  or  in  the  night. 

COUNTESS. 

He  wished 
To  erect  a  figure  for  your  horoscope. 

THEKLA. 

My  hand  too  he  examined,  shook  his  head 
With  much  sad  meaning,  and  the  lines,  methought, 
Did  not  square  over  truly  with  his  wishes. 

COUNTESS. 

Well,  Princess,  and  what  found  you  in  this  tower  ? 
My  highest  privilege  has  been  to  snatch 
A  side  glance,  and  away  I 

THEKLA. 
It  was  a  strange 

Sensation  that  came  o'er  me,  when  at  first 
From  the  broad  sunshine  I  stepped  in ;  and  now 
The  narrowing  line  of  day-light,  that  ran  after 
The  closing  door,  was  gone  ;  and  all  about  me 
'Twas  pale  and  dusky  night,  with  many  shadows 
Fantastically  cast.     Here  six  or  seven 
Colossal  statues,  and  all  kings,  stood  round  ine 
In  a  half  circle-     Each  one  in  his  hand 


THE  PICCOLOMINL  463 


A  sceptre  bore,  and  on  his  head  a  star, 

And  in  the  tower  no  other  light  was  there 

But  from  these  stars  :  all  seemed  to  come  from  them. 

'  These  are  the  planets,'  said  that  low  old  man, 

1  They  govern  wordly  fates,  and  for  that  cause 

Are  imaged  here  as  kings.     That  farthest  from  you, 

Spiteful  and  cold,  an  old  man  melancholy, 

With  bent  and  yellow  forehead,  he  is  Saturn. 

He  opposite,  the  king  with  the  red  light, 

An  armed  man  for  the  battle,  that  is  Mars  : 

And  both  these  bring  but  little  luck  to  man.' 

But  at  his  side  a  lovely  lady  stood, 

The  star  upon  her  head  was  soft  and  bright, 

And  that  was  Venus,  the  bright  star  of  joy. 

On  the  left  hand,  lo  !  Mercury,  with  wings. 

Quite  in  the  middle  glittered  silver-bright 

A  cheerful  man,  and  with  a  monarch's  mien  ; 

And  this  was  Jupiter,  my  father's  star  : 

And  at  his  side  1  saw  the  Sun  and  Moon. 

MAX. 

O  never  rudely  will  I  blame  his  faith 
In  the  might  of  stars  and  angels  1     'Tis  not  merely 
Th^  human  being's  pride  that  peoples  space 
With  life  and  mystical  predominance ; 
Since  likewise  for  the  stricken  heart  of  Love 
This  visible  nature,  and  this  common  world, 
Is  all  too  narrow  :  yea,  a  deeper  import 
Lurks  in  the  legend  tpld  my  infant  years 
Than  lies  upon  that  truth,  we  live  to  learn. 
For  fable  is  Love's  world,  his  home,  his  birthplace  : 
Delightedly  dwells  he  'mong  fays,  and  talismans, 
Arid  spirits  ;  and  delightedly  believes 
Divinities,  being  himself  divine. 
The  intelligible  forms  of  ancient  poets, 
The  fair  humanities  of  old  religion, 
The  power,  the  beauty,  and  the  majesty, 
That  had  their  haunts  in  dale,  or  piny  mountain, 
Or  forest  by  slow  stream,  or  pebbly  spring, 
Or  chasms  and  wat'ry  depths  ;  all  these  have  vanished  J 
They  live  no  longer  in  the  faith  of  reason  ! 
But  still  the  heart  doth  need  a  language,  still 
Doth  the  old  instinct  bring  back  the  old  names. 
And  to  yon  starry  woVld  they  now  are  gone, 
Spirits  or  gods,  that  used  to  share  this  earth 
With  man  as  with  their  friend  ;  arid  to  the  lover 


464  COLERIDGE 'S  POEMS. 

Yonder  they  move,  from  yonder  visible  sky 
Shoot  influence  down  :  and  even  at  this  day 
'Tis  Jupiter  who  brings  whate'er  is  great, 
And  Venus  who  brings  every  thing  that's  fair  f 

THEKLA. 

And  if  this  be  the  science  of  the  stars, 

I  too,  with  glad  and  zealous  industry, 

Will  learn  acquaintance  with  this  cheerful  faith 

It  is  a  gentle  and  affectionate  thought, 

That  in  immeasurable  height  above  us, 

At  our  first  birth,  the  wreath  of  love  was  woven, 

With  sparkling  stars  for  flowers. 

COUNTESS. 

Not  only  roses, 

But  thorns  too  hath  the  heaven  ;  and  well  for  you 
Leave  they  your  wreath  of  love  inviolate. 
What  Venus  twined,  the  bearer  of  glad  fortune, 
The  sullen  orb  of  Mars  soon  tears  to  pieces. 

MAX. 

Soon  will  its  gloomy  empire  reach  its  close. 

Blest  be  the  General's  zeal :  into  the  laurel 

Will  he  inweave  the  olive-branch,  presenting 

Peace  to  the  shouting  nations.     Then  no  wish 

Will  have  remained  for  his  great  heart  I     Enough 

Has  he  performed  for  glory,  and  can  now 

Live  for  himself  and  his.     To  his  domains 

Will  he  retire  ;  he  has  a  stately  seat 

Of  fairest  view  at  Gitschin  ;  Reichenberg, 

And  Friedland  Castle,  both  lie  pleasantly — 

Even  to  the  foot  of  the  huge  mountains  here 

Stretches  the  chase  and  covers  of  his  forests  ; 

His  ruling  passion,  to  create  the  splendid, 

He  can  indulge  without  restraint ;  can  give 

A  princely  patronage  to  every  art, 

And  to  all  worth  a  sovereign's  protection. 

Can  build,  can  plant,  can  watch  the  starry  courses— 

COUNTESS. 

Yet  I  would  have  you  look,  and  look  again, 
Before  you  lay  aside  your  arms,  young  friend  1 
A  gentle  bride,  as  she  is,  is  well  worth  it 
That  you  should  woo  and  win  her  with  the  sword. 


THE  PICCOLOMINl.  465 


MAX. 
O,  that  the  sword  could  win  her  ! 

COUNTESS. 

What  was  that  ? 

Did  you  hear  nothing  ?    Seemed  as  if  I  heard 
Tumult  and  laruni  in  the  banquet-room.  [Exit  Countess. 


SCENE   V. 
THEKLA  and  MAX.  PICCOLOMINL 

THEKLA.  (As  soon  as  the  Countess  is  out  of  sight,  in  a  quick  low 

voice  to  Piccolomini.) 
Don't  trust  them !     They  are  false  ! 

MAX. 

Impossible ! 

THELKA. 

Trust  no  one  here  but  me.     I  saw  at  once, 
They  had  a  purpose. 

MAX. 

Purpose !  but  what  purpose  ? 
And  how  can  we  be  instrumental  to  it  ? 

THEKLA. 

I  know  no  more  than  you  ;  but  yet,  believe  me, 
There's  some  design  in  this !     To  make  us  happy, 
To  realize  our  union — trust  me,  love ! 
They  but  pretend  to  wish  it. 

MAX. 

But  these  Tertskies — 

Why  use  we  them  at  all  ?    Why  not  your  mother  ? 
Excellent  creature  1  she  deserves  from  us 
A  full  and  filial  confidence. 

THEKLA. 

She  doth  love  you, 

Doth  rate  you  high  before  all  others — but — 
But  such  a  secret — she  would  never  have 
The  courage  to  conceal  it  from  my  father. 
For  her  own  peace  of  mind  we  must  preserve  it 
A  secret  from  her  too. 

30 


466  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


MAX. 

Why  any  secret  ? 

I  love  not  secrets.     Mark  what  I  will  do. 
I'll  throw  me  at  your  father's  feet — let  him 
Decide  upon  my  fortunes  ! — He  is  true, 
He  wears  no  mask — he  hates  all  crooked  ways — 
He  is  so  good,  so  noble  ! 

THEKLA.  (falls  on  his  neck.) 
That  are  you  1 

MAX. 

You  knew  him  only  since  this  morn  ;  but  I 
Have  lived  ten  years  already  in  his  presence, 
And  who  knows  whether  in  this  very  moment 
He  is  not  merely  waiting  for  us  both 
To  own  our  loves,  in  order  to  unite  us 

You  are  silent  ? 

You  look  at  me  with  such  a  hopelessness  ! 
What  have  you  to  object  against  your  father? 

THEKLA, 

I  ?  Nothing.  Only  he's  so  occupied — 
He  has  no  leisure  time  to  think  about 
The  happiness  of  us  two.  [Taking  his  hand  tenderly. 

Follow  me  ! 

Let  us  not  place  too  great  a  faith  in  men. 
These  Tertskies — we  will  still  be  grateful  to  them 
For  every  kindness,  but  not  trust  them  further 

Than  they  deserve  ; — and  in  all  else  rely 

On  our  own  hearts  I 

MAX. 
O  !  shall  we  e'er  be  happy? 

THEKLA. 

Are  we  not  happy  now  ?    Art  thou  not  mine  ? 
Am  I  not  thine  ?    There  lives  within  my  soul 
A  lofty  courage — 'tis  love  gives  it  me  ! 
I  ought  to  be  less  open — ought  to  hide 
My  heart  more  from  thee — so  decorum  dictates. 
But  where  in  this  place  could'st  thou  seek  for  truth 
If  in  my  mouth  thou  did'st  not  find  it  ? 


THE  PrCCOLOMINL 


SCENE  VI. 

To  them  enters  the  COUNTESS  TERTSKY. 

COUNTESS,  (in  a  pressing  manner.) 

Come  ! 

My  husband  sends  me  for  you— It  is  now 
The  latest  moment. 

[They  not  appearing  to  attend  to  what  she  says,  she  steps  be- 
tween them. 

Part  you ! 

THEKLA 

O,  not  yet  t   1 
It  has  been  scarce  a  moment, 

COUNTESS. 

Ay  !     Then  time 
Flies  swiftly  with  your  Highness,  Princess  niece  ! 

MAX. 
There  is  no  hurry,  aunt, 

COUNTESS. 

Away !  away ! 

The  folks  begin  to  miss  you.     Twice  already 
His  father  has  asked  for  him. 

THEKLA. 

Ha !  his  father  ? 

COUNTESS- 
You  understand  that,  niece. 

THEKLA. 

Why  needs  he 
To  go  at  all  to  that  society  ? 
'Tis  not  his  proper  company.     They  may- 
Be  worthy  men,  but  he's  too  young  for  them. 
In  brief,  he  suits  not  such  society. 

COUNTESS. 
You  mean,  you'd  rather  keep  him  wholly  here  ? 

THEKLA.  (with  energy.} 

Yes  !  you  have  hit  it,  aunt !     That  is  my  meaning. 
Leave  him  here  wholly  I    Tell  the  company — 


468  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS 

COUNTESS. 

What  ?— have  you  lost  your  senses,  niece  ? 

Count,  you  remember  the  conditions.     Come  ! 

MAX.  (to  Thekla.} 
Lady,  J  must  obey.     Farewell,  dear  lady  ! 

[Thekla  turns  away  from  him  with  a  quick  motion, 
What  say  y9U  then,  dear  lady  ? 

TH>:KLA.  (without  looking  at  him.} 
Nothing.     Go ! 
MAX. 

dan  I,  when  ygu  are  angry 

[He  draws  up  to  her,  their  eyes  meet,  she  stands  silent  a 
moment,  then  throws  herself  into  his  arms  ;  he  presses  her 
fast  to  his  heart. 

COUNTESS. 

Off  !     Heavens !  if  any  one  should  come  ! 
Hark  I     What's  that  noise  ?     It  comes  this  way.— Off  ! 

[Max.  tears  himself  away  out  of  her  arms,  and  goes.  The 
Countess  accompanies  him.  Thekla  follows  him  with  her 
eyes  at  first,  walks  restlessly  across  the  room,  then  stops, 
and  remains  standing,  lost  in  thought.  A  guitar  lies  on 
the  table,  she  seizes  it  as  by  a  sudden  emotion,  and  after 
she  has  played  awhile  an  irregular  and  melancholy  sym- 
phony, she  falls  gradually  into  the  music  and  sings. 

THEKLA.  (plays  and  sings.) 
The  cloud  doth  gather,  the  greenwood  roar, 
The  damsel  paces  along  the  shore  ; 
The  billows  they  tumble  with  might,  with  might ; 
And  she  flings  out  her  voice  to  the  darksome  night  j 

Her  bosom  is  swelling  with  sorrow  : 
The  world  is  empty,  the  heart  will  die, 
There's  nothing  to  wish  for  beneath  the  sky  : 
Thou  Holy  One,  call  thy  child  away  ! 

I've  lived  and  loved,  and  that  was  to-day 

Make  ready  my  grave-clothes  to-morrow.* 


*  I  found  it  not  in  my  power  to  translate  this  song  with  literal  fidelity,  preserving 
at  the  same  time  the  Alcaic  movement ;  and  have  therefore  added  the  original  with  a 
prose  translation.  Some  of  my  readers  may  be  more  fortunate. 

THEKLA.    (Spielt  und  singt.) 
Der  Eichenwalc  brauset,  die  Wolken  ziehn, 
Das  Magdlein  wxndeltan  Ufers  Griin, 
Es  bricht  sich  die  Welle  mil  Macht,  init  Macht, 
And  sie  singt  hinaus  in  die  iinstre  Nacht, 


THE  PICCOLOMIXL  469 


SCENE  VII. 

COUNTESS  (returns^  THEKLA. 

COUNTESS. 

Fie,  lady  niece  !  to  throw  yourself  upon  him. 
Like  a  poor  gift  to  one  who  cares  not  for  it, 
And  so  must  be  flung  after  him  !     For  you, 
Duke  Friedland's  only  child.  I  should  have  thought 
It  had  been  more  beseeming  to  have  shown  yourself 
More  chary  of  your  person. 

THELKA.  (rising.} 

And  what  mean  you  ? 

COUNTESS. 

I  mean,  niece,  that  you  should  not  have  forgotten 
Who  you  are,  and  who  he  is.     But  perchance 
That  never  once  occurred  to  you. 

THEKLA. 

What  then? 
COUNTESS. 
That  you're  the  daughter  of  the  Prince-duke  Friedland. 

Das  Auge  von  Weinen  getriibet: 
Das  Herz  ist  gestorben.  die  Welt  ist  leer. 
Und  weiter  giebt  sie  dem  Wunscbe  nichts  mehr. 
Du  Heilige,  rufe  dein  Kind  zui uck, 
Icli  babe  genossen  das  irdische  Gluck, 

Ich  babe  gelebt  and  geliebet. 

LITERAL    TRANSLATION. 

THEKLA.    (Plays  and  sings.) 

The  oak-forest  bellows,  the  clouds  gather,  the  damsel  walks  to  and  fro  on  the  green 
of  the  shore  ;  the  wave  breaks  with  might,  with  might,  and  she  sings  out  into  the  dark 
night,  her  eye  discolored  with  weeping  :  the  heart  is  dead,  the  world  is  empty,  and  fur- 
ther gives  it  nothing  more  to  the  wish.  Thou  Holy  One.  call  thy  child  hoine,  I  have 
enjoyed  tbe  happiness  of  this  world,  1  have  lived  and  have  loved. 

I  cannot  but  add  here  an  imitation  of  this  song,  with  which  the  author  of  '  Tbe  Talc 
of  Rosamund  Gray  and  Blind  Margaret'  has  favored  me,  and  which  appears  to  me  fco 
have  caught  the  happiest  manner  of  our  old  ballads. 

The  clouds  are  blackening,  the  storms  threatening, 

The  cavern  doth  mutter,  the  greenwood  moan  ; 
Billows  are  breaking,  the  damsel's  heart  aching  : 

Thus  in  the  dark  night  &he  singeth  alone, 

Her  eye  upward  roving  : 
The  world  is  empty,  the  heart  is  dead  surely, 

In  this  world  plainly  all  seemetb  amiss  ; 
To  thy  heaven,  Holy  One,  take  home  thy  little  one, 

1  have  partaken  of  all  earth's  bliss, 
Both  living  and  loving. 


47°  COLERIDGE  'S  POEMS. 


THEKLA. 
Well— and  what  further  ? 

COUNTESS. 

What  ?  a  pretty  question  I 

THEKLA. 

He  was  born  that  which  we  have  but  become. 
He's  of  an  ancient  Lombard  family, 
Son  of  a  reigning  princess. 

COUNTESS. 

Are  you  dreaming  ? 

Talking  in  sleep  ?    An  excellent  jest,  forsooth ! 
We  shall,  no  doubt,  right  courteously  entreat  him 
To  honor  with  his  hand  the  richest  heiress 
In  Europe. 

THEKLA. 
That  will  not  be  necessary. 

COUNTESS. 
Hethinks  'twere  well  tho'  not  to  run  the  hazard. 

THEKLA. 

fitis  father  loves  him,  Count  Octavio 
Will  interpose  no  difficulty 

COUNTESS. 

His  ! 
ffis  father  1  his!    But  yours,  niece,  what  of  yours  ? 

THEKLA. 

Thy  I  begin  to  think  you  fear  his  father, 
r^o  anxiously  you  hide  it  from  the  man  ; 
fits  father,  his,  I  mean. 

COUNTESS,  (looks  at  her,  as  scrutinizing.) 
Niece,  you  are  false. 

THEKLA. 
Are  you  then  wounded  ?    O,  be  friends  with  me  ! 

COUNTESS. 

^Tou  hold  your  game  for  won  already.     Do  not 
Triumph  too  soon  ! — 

THEKLA.  (interrupting  her,  and  attempting  to  soothe  her.) 
Nay  now,  be  friends  with  me. 


THE  PICCOL  OMINL  47 1 


COUNTESS. 
It  is  not  yet  so  far  gone. 

THEKLA. 
I  believe  you. 

COUNTESS. 

Did  you  suppose  your  father  had  laid  out 
His  most  important  life  in  toils  of  war, 
Denied  himself  each  quiet  earthly  bliss, 
Had  banished  slumber  from  his  tent,  devoted 
His  noble  head  to  care,  and  for  this  only, 
To  make  a  happy  pair  of  you  ?     At  length 
To  draw  you  from  your  convent,  and  conduct 
In  easy  triumph  to  your  arms  the  man 
That  chanced  to  please  your  eyes  !     All  this,  methinks, 
He  might  have  purchased  at  a  cheaper  rate. 

THEKLA. 

That  which  he  did  not  plant  for  me,  might  yet 
Bear  me  fair  fruitage  of  its  own  accord. 
And  if  my  friendly  and  affectionate  fate. 
Out  of  his  fearful  and  enormous  being., 
Will  but  prepare  the  joys  of  life  for  me — 

COUNTESS. 

Thou  seest  it  with  a  lovelorn  maiden's  eyes. 
Cast  thine  eye  round,  bethink  thee  who  thou  art. 
Into  no  house  of  joyance  hast  thou  stepped. 
For  no  espousals  dost  thou  find  the  walls 
Decked  out,  no  guests  the  nuptial  garland  wearing. 
Here  is  no  splendor  but  of  arms.     Or  think'st  thou 
That  all  these  thousands  are  here  congregated 
To  lead  up  the  long  dances  at  thy  wedding  ? 
Thou  see'st  thy  father's  forehead  full  of  thought, 
Thy  mother's  eyes  in  tears  :  upon  the  balance 
Lies  the  great  destiny  of  all  our  house. 
Leave  now  the  puny  wish,  the  girlish  feeling, 
O  thrust  it  far  behind  thee  !     Give  thou  proof, 
That  thou'rt  the  daughter  of  the  Mighty — his 
Who  where  he  moves  creates  the  wonderful. 
Not  to  herself  the  woman  must  belong, 
Annexed  and  bound  to  alien  destinies. 
But  she  performs  the  best  part,  she  the  wisest, 
Who  can  transmute  the  alien  into  self. 
Meet  and  disarm  necessity  by  choice  : 


47 2  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

And  what  must  be,  take  freely  to  her  heart, 
And  bear  and  foster  it  with  mother's  love. 

THEKLA. 

Such  ever  was  my  lesson  in  the  convent. 
I  had  no  loves,  no  wishes,  knew  myself 
Only  as  his — his  daughter — his,  the  Mighty ! 
His  fame,  the  echo  of  whose  blast  drove  to  me 
From  the  far  distance,  wakened  in  my  soul 
No  other  thought  than  this — I  am  appointed 
To  offer  up  myself  in  passiveness  to  him. 

COUNTESS. 

That  is  thy  fate.     Mould  thou  thy  wishes  to  it. 
I  and  thy  mother  gave  thee  the  example. 

THEKLAc 

My  fate  hath  shown  me  him,  to  whom  behoves  it 
That  I  should  offer  up  myself.     In  gladness 
Him  will  I  follow. 

COUNTESS. 

Not  thy  fate  hath  shown  him  ; 
Thy  heart,  say  rather — 'twas  thy  heart,  my  child  I 

THEKLA. 

Fate  hath  no  voice  but  the  heart's  impulses. 
I  am  all  his  !  His  present — his  alone 
Is  this  new  life,  which  lives  in  me.     He  hath 
A  right  to  his  own  creature.     What  was  I 
Ere  his  fair  love  infused  a  soul  into  me  ? 

COUNTESS. 

Thou  would'st  oppose  thy  father  then,  should  he 
Have  otherwise  determined  with  thy  person  ? 

[  Thekla  remains  silent.     The  Countess  continues* 
Thou  mean'st  to  force  him  to  thy  liking  ?— Child, 
His  name  is  Fried  land. 

THEKLA. 

My  name  too  is  Friedland. 
He  shall  have  found  a  genuine  daughter  in  me. 

COUNTESS. 

What  ?  he  has  vanquished  all  impediment, 
And  in  the  wilful  mood  of  his  own  daughter 


THE  PICCOLOMINI.  473 


Shall  a  new  struggle  rise  for  him  ?     Child  !  child  ! 
As  yet  thou  hast  seen  thy  father's  smiles  alone  ; 
The  eye  of  his  rage  thou  hast  not  seen.     Dear  child, 
I  will  not  frighten  thee.     To  that  extreme, 
I  trust,  it  ne'er  shall  come.     His  will  is  yet 
Unknown  to  me  :  'tis  possible,  his  aims 
May  have  the  same  direction  as  thy  wish. 
But  this  can  never,  never  be  his  will, 
That  thou,  the  daughter  of  his  haughty  fortunes, 
Should'st  e'er  demean  thee  as  a  love-sick  maiden ; 
And  like  some  poor  cost-nothing,  fling  thyself 
Toward  the  man,  who,  if  that  high  prize  ever 
Be  destined  to  await  him,  yet,  with  sacrifices 
The  highest  love  can  bring,  must  pay  for  it. 

[Exit  COUNTESSc 

THEKLA.  (who  during  the  last  speech  had  been  standing  evidently 

lost  in  her  reflections.) 
I  thank  thee  for  the  hint.     It  turns 
My  sad  presentiment  to  certainty. 
And  it  is  so  ! — Not  one  friend  have  we  here, 
Not  one  true  heart !  we've  nothing  but  ourselves  ! 

0  she  said  rightly — no  auspicious  signs 
Beam  on  this  covenant  of  our  affections. 
This  is  no  theatre,  where  hope  abides. 

The  dull  thick  noise  of  war  alone  stirs  here. 
And  Love  himself,  as  he  were  armed  in  steel, 
Steps  forth,  and  girds  him  for  the  strife  of  death. 

[  Music  from  the  banquet-room  Is  heard. 
There's  a  dark  spirit  walking  in  our  house, 
And  swiftly  will  the  destiny  close  on  us. 
It  drove  me  hither  from  my  calm  asylum, 
It  mocks  my  soul  with  charming  witchery, 
It  lures  me  forward  in  a  seraph's  shape, 

1  see  it  near,  I  see  it  nearer  floating, 

It  draws,  it  pulls  me  with  a  god-like  power — 
And  lo  ! — the  abyss — and  thither  am  I  moving — 
\  have  no  power  within  me  not  to  move  ! 

{The  music  from  the  banquet-room  becomes  louder- 
0  when  a  house  is  doomed  in  fire  to  perish, 
Many  and  dark  heaven  drives  his  clouds  together, 
Yea,  shoots  his  lightnings  down  from  sunny  heights, 
Flames  burst  from  out  the  subterraneous  chasms, 
*  And  fiends  and  angels,  mingling  in  their  fury, 
Fling  fire-brands  at  the  burning  edifice.  [Exit  Thekla, 

*There  are  few,  who  will  not  have  taste  enough  to  laugh  at  the  two  concluding  lines 
of  this  soliloquy  ;  and  still  fewer,  I  would  fain  hope,  who  would  not  have  been  mwe 


474  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS, 


SCENE  VIII. 

0 

A  large  saloon  lighted  up  with  festal  splendor  ;  in  the  midst 
of  it,  and  in  the  centre  of  the  stage,  a  table  richly  set  out,  at 
which  eight  generals  are  sitting,  among  whom  are  OCTAVIO 
PICCOLOMINI,  TERTSKY,  ani  MARADAS.  Right  and  left  of 
this,  but  farther  back,  two  other  tables,  at  each  of  which  six 
persons  are  placed.  The  middle  door,  which  is  standing 
open,  gives  to  the  prospect  a  fourth  table,  with  the  same 
number  of  persons.  More  forward  stands  the  sideboard.  The 
whole  front  of  the  stage  its  kept  open  for  the  pages  and  servants 
in  waiting.  All  is  in  motion.  The  band  of  music  belonging 
to  Tertsky's  regiment  march  across  the  stage,  and  draw  up 
round  the  tables.  Before  they  are  quite  off  from  the  front  of 
the  stage,  MAX.  PICCOLOMINI  appears  ;  TERTSKY  advances 
towards  him  with  a  paper,  ISOLANI  comes  up  to  him  with  a 
beaker  or  service-cup. 

TERTSKY,  ISOLANI,  MAX.  PICCOLOMINI. 
ISOLANI. 

Here,  brother,  what  we  love  !     Why,  where  hast  been  ? 
Off,  to  thy  place — quick  !     Tertsky  here  has  given 
The  mother's  holiday  wine  up  to  free  booty. 
Here  it  goes  on  as  at  the  Heidelberg  castle. 
Already  hast  thou  lost  the  best.     They're  giving 
At  yonder  table  ducal  crowns  in  shares  ; 
There's  Sternberg's  lands  arid  chattels  are  put  up, 
With  Eggeriberg's,  Stawata's,  Lichtenstein's, 
And  all  the  great  Bohemian  feudalities. 
Be  nimble,  lad  !  and  something  may  turn  up 
For  thee — who  knows  ?    Off — to  thy  place  !  quick  !  march  ! 
TIEFENBACH  and  GOETZ  (call  out  from  the  second  and  third  tables.) 
Count  Piccolomini  I 

TERTSKY. 

Stop,  ye  shall  have  him  in  an  instant. — Read 
This  oath  here,  whether  as  'tis  here  set  forth. 
The  wording  satisfies  you.     They've  all  read  it, 
Each  in  his  turn,  and  each  one  will  subscribe 
ilis  individual  signature. 

/imposed  to  shudder,  had  I  given  a  faithful  translation     For  the  readers  of  Gernu 
fcive  added  the  original   — 

Blind  wlithend  wl^einlert  spll:st  <ler  Cntt  der  Freude 
Deu  Pechkrauz  in  da*  oieanunde  Gebauclb, 


THE  PICCOLO  MINI.  475 


MAX.  (reads.) 
*  Ingratis  servire  nefas.' 

ISOLANI. 

That  sounds  to  my  ears  very  much  like  Latin, 
And  being  interpreted,  pray  what  may't  mean? 

TERTSKY. 
No  honest  man  wil!  serve  a  thankless  master. 

MAX. 

'  Inasmuch  as  our  supreme  commander,  the  illustrious  Duke  of 
Friedlarid,  in  consequence  of  the  manifold  affronts  and  grievances 
which  he  has  received,  had  expressed  his  determination  to  quit 
the  Emperor,  but  on  our  unanimous  entreaty  has  graciously  con- 
sented to  remain  still  with  the  army,  arid  not  to  part  from  us 
without  our  approbation  thereof,  so  we,  collectively  and  each  in 
particular,  in  the  stead  of  an  oath  personally  taken,  do  hereby 
oblige  ourselves  —  likewise  by  him  honorably  arid  faithfully  to 
hold,  and  in  no  wise  whatsoever  from  him  to  part,  arid  to  be  ready 
to  shed  for  his  interests  the  last  drop  of  our  blood,  so  far,  namely, 
as  our  oath  to  the  Emperor  will  permit  it.  (  These  last  words  are 
repeated  by  Isolani.)  Ir.  testimony  of  which  we  subscribe  our 
names.' 

TERTSKY. 
Now  !—  are  you  willing  to  subscribe  this  paper  ? 

ISOLANI. 

Why  should  he  not?     All  officers  of  honor 
Can  do  it,  ay,  must  do  it.  —  Pen  and  ink  here  ! 

TERTSKY. 
NT  ay,  let  it  rest  till  after  meal. 

ISOLANI.  (drawing  Max.  along.) 
Max.  [Both  seat  themselves  at  their  table. 


SCENE  IX. 

TERTSKY,  NEUMANN. 
TERTSKY.  (Reckons  to  Neumann  who  is  waiting  at  the  side  table^ 

and  steps  forward  with  him  to  the  edge  of  the  stage.) 
Have  you  the  copy  with  you,  Neumann  ?     Give  it. 
tt  may  be  changed  for  the  other  ? 


476  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS, 

NEUMANN. 

I  have  copied  it 

Letter  by  letter,  line  by  line  ;  no  eye 
Would  e'er  discover  other  difference. 
Save  only  the  omission  of  that  clause, 
According  to  your  Excellency's  order, 

TERTSKY. 

Right !     Lay  it  yonder,  and  away  with  this — 
It  has  performed  its  business — to  the  fire  with  it — 

[Neumann  lays  the  copy  on  the  table,  and  steps  back  again 
the  side  table. 

SCENE  X. 

ILLO  (comes  out  from  the  second  chamber),  TERTSKY. 

ILLO. 
How  goes  it  with  young  Piccolo  mini  ? 

TERTSKY. 
All  right,  I  think.     He  has  started  no  objection. 

ILLO. 

He  is  the  only  one  I  fear  about — 
He  and  his  father.     Have  an  eye  on  both ! 

TERTSKY. 

How  looks  it  at  your  table  ?    You  forget  not 
To  keep  them  warm  and  stirring  ? 

ILLO. 

O,  quite  cordial, 

They  are  quite  cordial  in  the  scheme.     We  have  them. 
And  'tis  as  I  predicted  too.     Already 
It  is  the  talk,  not  merely  to  maintain 
The  Duke  in  station.     '  Since  we're  once  for  all 
Together  and  unanimous,  why  not,' 
Says  Montecuctili,  '  ay,  why  not  onward, 
And  make  conditions  with  the  Emperor 
There  in  his  own  Vienna  V  '     Trust  me,  Count, 
Were  it  not  for  these  said  Piccolomini, 
We  might  have  spared  ourselves  the  cheat. 

TERTSKY. 

And  Butler? 
How  goes  it  there  ?    Hush  I 


THE  P1CCOLOMINL  477 


SCENE  XI. 

To  them  enters  BUTLER  from  the  second  table 
BUTLER. 

Don't  disturb  yourselves 

Field  Marsha),  I  have  understood  you  perfectly, 
Good  luck  be  to  the  scheme  ;  and  as  to  me, 

\with  an  air  oj  mystery. 
You  may  depend  upon  me. 

ILLO.  (with  vivacity.) 

May  we,  Butler  ? 

BUTLER. 

With  or  without  the  clause,  all  one  to  me  ! 
You  understand  me?     My  fidelity 
The  Duke  may  put  to  any  proof — I'm  with  him  .' 
Tell  him  so  '     I'm  the  Emperor's  officer, 
As  long  as  'tis  his  pleasure  to  remain 
The  Emperor's  general ;  and  Friedland's  servant, 
As  soon  as  it  shall  please  him  to  become 
His  own  lord. 

TERTSKY. 

You  would  make  a  good  exchange  : 
No  stern  economist,  no  Ferdinand, 
Is  he  to  whom  you  plight  your  services. 

BUTLER,     (with  a  haughty  look.} 

I  do  not  put  up  my  fidelity 

To  sale,  Count  Tertsky  !     Half  a  year  ago 

I  would  not  have  advised  you  to  have  made  me 

An  overture  to  that,  to  which  I  now 

Offer  myself  of  my  own  free  accord.— 

But  that  is  past  f  and  to  the  Duke,  Field-Marshal, 

I  bring  myself  together  with  my  regiment. 

And  mark  you,  'tis  my  humor  to  believe, 

The  example  which  I  give  will  not  remain 

Without  an  influence  - 

ILLO. 

Who  is  ignorant, 

That  the  whole  army  look  to  Colonel  Butler, 
As  to  a  light  that  moves  before  them  ? 


478  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


BUTLER. 

Ey? 

Then  I  repent  me  not  of  that  fidelity 
Which  for  the  length  of  forty  years  I  held. 
If  in  my  sixtieth  year  my  good  old  name 
Can  purchase  for  me  a  revenge  so  full. 
Start  not  at  what  I  say,  sir  generals  ! 
My  real  motives — they  concern  not  you. 
Arid  you  yourselves,  I  trust,  could  not  expect 
That  this  your  game  had  crooked  my  judgments— or 
That  fickleness,  quick  blood,  or  such  like  cause, 
Has  driven  the  old  man  from  the  track  of  honor, 
Which  he  so  long  had  trodden. — Come,  my  friends! 
I'm  not  thereto  determined  with  less  firmness, 
Because  I  know  and  have  looked  steadily 
At  that  on  which  I  have  determined. 

ILLO. 

Say, 
And  speak  roundly,  what  are  we  to  deem  you  ? 

BUTLER. 

A  friend  !     I  give  you  here  my  hand  !     I'm  yours 
With  all  I  have.     Not  only  men,  but  money 

Will  the  Duke  want. Go,  tell  him.  sirs  t 

I've  earned  arifl  laid  up  somewhat  in  his  service, 

I  lend  it  him  !  arid  is  he  my  survivor, 

It  has  been  already  long  ago  bequeathed  him. 

He  is  my  heir.     For  me,  I  stand  alone 

Here  in  the  world  ;  nought  know  I  of  the  feelings 

That  bind  the  husband  to  a  wife  arid  children, 

My  name  dies  with  me,  ray  existence  ends. 

ILLO. 

'Tis  not  your  money  that  he  needs — a  heart 
Like  yours  weighs  tons  of  gold  down,  weighs  down  millions 

BUTLER. 

I  came  a  simple  soldier's  boy  from  Ireland 
To  Prague — and  with  a  master,  whom  I  buried. 
From  lowest  stable  duty  I  climbed  up, 
Such  was  the  fate  of  war,  to  this  high  rank, 
The  plaything  of  a  whimsical  good  fortune. 
And  Wallenstein  too  is  a  child  of  luck, 
I  love  a  fortune  that  is  like  my  own. 

ILLO. 
All  powerful  souls  have  kindred  with  each  other. 


THE  PICCOLOMINL  479 


BUTLER. 

This  is  an  awful  moment !  to  the  brave, 
To  the  determined,  and  auspicious  moment. 
The  Prince  of  Weimer  arms,  upon  the  Maine 
To  found  a  mighty  dukedom.     He  of  Halberstadt, 
That  Mansfeld  wanted  but  a  longer  life 
To  have  marked  out  with  his  good  sword  a  lordship 
That  should  reward  his  courage.     Who  of  these 
Equals  our  i<'riedland  ?     There  is  nothing,  nothing 
So  high,  but  he  may  set  the  ladder  to  it ! 

TERTSKY. 
That's  spoken  like  a  man  ! 

BUTLER. 

Do  you  secure  the  Spaniard  and  Italian — 
I'll  be  your  warrant  for  the  Scotchman  Lesly. 
Come  !  to  the  company  ! 

TERTSKY. 

Where  is  the  master  of  the  cellar  ?     Ho  ! 
Let  the  best  wines  come  up.     Ho  !  cheerly,  boy  ! 
Luck  comes  to-day,  so  give  her  hearty  welcome. 

[Exeunt  each  to  his  table 

SCENE  XII. 

The  MASTER  OF  THE  CELLAR  advancing  with  NEUMANN, 
SERVANTS  passing  backwards  and  forwards. 

MASTER  OF  THE  CELLAR. 

The  best  wines  !  O  !  if  my  old  mistress,  his  lady  mother,  could 
but  see  these  wild  goings  on,  she  would  turn  herself  round  in  her 
grave.  Yes,  yes,  sir  officer  !  'tis  all  down  the  hill  with  this  noble 
house  !  no  end,  no  moderation  !  And  this  marriage  with  the 
Duke's  sister,  a  splendid  connection,  a  very  splendid  connection  ! 
but  I  tell  you,  sir  officer,  it  bodes  no  good. 

NEUMANN. 

Heaven  forbid  !  Why,  at  this  very  moment  the  whole  prospect 
is  in  bud  and  blossom ! 

MASTER  OF  THE  CELLAR. 
You  think  so  ? — Well,  well,  much  may  be  said  on  that  head. 

IST  SERVANT,     (comes.) 
Burgundy  for  the  fourth  table. 


480  COLERIDGE  >S  POEMS. 


MASTER  OF  THE  CELLAR. 
Now,  sir  lieutenant,  if  this  isn't  the  seventieth  flask — 

IST  SERVANT. 

Why,  the  reason  is,  that  German  lord,  Tiefenbach,  sits  at  that 
table. 

MASTER  OF  THE  CELLAR,  (continuing  his  discourse  to  Neumann.) 
They  are  soaring  too  high.  They  would  rival  kings  and  elect- 
ors in  their  pomp  and  splendor;  and  wherever  the  Duke  leaps, 
not  a  minute  does  my  gracious  master,  the  Count,  loiter  on  the 
brink. — (To  the  Servants.) — What  do  you  stand  there  listening 
for  ?  I  will  let  you  know  you  have  legs  presently.  Off  !  see  to  the 
tables,  see  to  the  flasks !  Look  there  !  Count  Palfi  has  an  empty 
glass  before  him ! 

RUNNER,     (comes.) 

The  great  service-cup  is  wanted,  sir  ;  that  rich  gold  cup  with 
the  Bohemian  arms  on  it.  The  Count  says  you  know  which  it  is. 

MASTER  OF  THE  CELLAR. 

Ay !  that  was  made  for  Frederick's  coronation,  by  the  artists 
William — there  was  not  such  another  prize  in  the  whole  booty  at 
Prague. 

RUNNER. 
The  same  ! — a  health  is  to  go  round  in  him. 

MASTER  OF  THE  CELLAR,   (shaking  his  head  while  he  fetches  and 

rinses  the  cup.) 
This  will  be  something  for  the  tale-bearers — this  goes  to  Vienna. 

NEUMANN. 

Permit  me  to  look  at  it. — Well,  this  is  a  cup  indeed  !  How 
heavy  !  as  well  it  may  be,  being  all  gold. — And  what  neat  things 
are  embossed  on  it!  how  natural  and  elegant  they  look  ! — There, 
on  the  first  quarter,  let  me  see.  That  proud  Amazon  there  on 
horseback,  she  that  is  taking  a  leap  over  the  crosiers  and  mitres, 
and  carries  on  a'  wand,  a  hat,  together  with  a  banner,  on  which 
there's  a  goblet  represented.  Can  you  tell  me  what  all  this  signi- 
fies? 

MASTER  OF  THE  CELLAR. 
The  woman  whom  you  see  there  on  horseback,  is  the  Free 
Election  of  the  Bohemian  crown.  That  is  signified  by  the  round 
hat,  and  by  that  fiery  steed  on  which  she  is  riding.  The  hat  is 
the  pride  of  man  ;  for  he  who  cannot  keep  his  hat  on  before  kings 
and  emperors  is  no  free  man. 


THE  PICCOLOMINL  481 


NEUMANN. 
But  what  is  the  cup  there  on  the  banner  ? 

MASTER  OF  THE  CELLAR. 

The  cup  signifies  the  freedom  of  the  Bohemian  Church,  as  it 
was  in  our  forefathers'  times.  Our  forefathers,  in  the  wars  of  the 
Hussites,  forced  from  the  pope  this  noble  privilege;  for  the  pope, 
you  know,  will  not  grant  the  cup  to  any  layman.  Your  true 
Moravian  values  nothing  beyond  the  cup  ;  it  is  his  costly  jewel, 
and  has  cost  the  Bohemians  their  precious  blood  in  many  and 
many  a  battle. 

NEUMANN. 
And  what  says  that  chart  that  hangs  in  the  air  there,  over  it  all  ? 

MASTER  OF  THE  CELLAR. 

That  signifies  the  Bohemian  letter  royal,  which  we  forced  from 
the  Emperor  Rodolph — a  precious,  never  to  be  enough  valued 
parchment,  that  secures  to  the  new  Church  the  old  privileges  of 
free  ringing  and  open  psalmody.  But  since  he  of  Stiermark  has 
ruled  over  us,  that  is  at  an  end  ;  and  after  the  battle  at  Prague, 
in  which  Count  Palatine  Frederick  lost  his  crown  and  empire,  our 
faith  hangs  upon  the  pulpit  and  altar — and  our  brethren  look  at 
their  homes  over  their  shoulders;  but  the  letter  royal  the  Emperor 
himself  cut  to  pieces  with  his  scissors. 

NEUMANN. 

Why,  my  good  Master  of  the  Cellar  !  you  are  deep  read  in  the 
chronicles  of  your  country  ? 

MASTER  OF  THE  CELLAR. 

So  were  my  forefathers,  and  for  that  reason  were  they  min- 
strels, arid  served  under  Procopius  and  Ziska.  Peace  be  with 
their  ashes !  Well,  well !  they  fought  for  a  good  cause  tho' — 
There !  carry  it  up  ! 

NEUMANN. 

Stay  !  let  me  but  look  at  this  second  quarter.  Look  there  I 
That  is,  when  at  Prague  Castle  the  Imperial  Counsellors,  Martin- 
itz  and  Stawata,  were  hurled  down  head  over  heels.  'Tis  even  so  ! 
there  stands  Count  Thur  who  commands  it. 

[Runner  takes  the  service-cup  and  goes  off  with  it. 

MASTER  OF  THE  CELLAR. 

•  O  let  me  never  more  hear  of  that  day.  It  was  the  three  and 
twentieth  of  May,  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  one  thousand,  six  hun- 
dred, and  eighteen.  It  seems  to  me  as  it  were  but  yesterday — from 


482  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


that  unlucky  day  it  all  began,  all  the  heart-aches  of  the  country. 

Since  that  day  it  is  now  sixteen  years,  and  there  has  never  once 

been  peace  on  the  earth.    [Health  drank  aloud  at  the  second  table. 

The  Prince  of  Weimar  !  Hurra  !  [At  the  third  and  fourth  tables. 

Long  live  ^rince  William  !     Long  live  Duke  Bernard  !    Hurra  ! 

[Music  strikes  up. 
IST  SERVANT. 
Hear'ein  !    Hear'em  !  What  an  uproar ! 

2D  SERVANT,    (comes  in  running.) 
Did  you  near  ?    They  have  drunk  the  Prince  of  Weimar's  health. 

3o  SERVANT. 
The  Swedish  Chief  Commander  ! 

IST  SERVANT,    (speaking  at  the  same  time.) 
The  Lutheran ! 

SD  SERVANT. 

Just  before,  when  Count  Deodate  gave  out  the  Emperor's 
health,  they  were  all  as  mum  as  a  nibbling  mouse. 

MASTER  OF  THE  CELLAR. 

Poh,  poh !  When  the  wine  goes  in  strange  things  come  out. 
A  good  servant  hears  and  hears  not !— You  should  be  nothing  but 
eyes  and  feet,  except  when  you're  called  to. 

2D  SERVANT,  (to  the  Runner,  to  whom  he  gives  secretly  a  flask  of 

wine,  keeping  his  eye  upon  the  Master  of  the  Cellar, 

standing  between  him  and  the  Runner.) 

Quick,  Thomas,  before  the  Master  of  the  Cellar  looks  this  way 
— 'tis  a  flask  of  Frontignac  !  Snapped  it  up  at  the  third  table. — 
Canst  go  off  with  it  ? 

RUNNER,  (hides  it  in  his  pocket.) 
All  right !  [Exit  the  2d  Servant. 

3D  SERVANT,  (aside,  to  the  first.) 

Be  on  the  hark,  Jack  !  that  we  may  have  right  plenty  to  tell 
to  father  Quivoga — He  will  give  us  right  plenty  of  absolution  in 
return  for  it. 

IST  SERVANT. 

For  tli  it  very  purpose  I  am  always  having  something  to  do 
behind  lllo's  chair  ! — He  is  the  man  for  speeches  to  make  you  stare 
with. 

MASTER  OF  THE  CELLAR,  (to  Neumann.) 
Who,  pray,  may  that  swarthy  man  be,  he  with  the  cross,  thai 
is  chatting  so  confidentially  with  Esterhats  ? 


THE  riCCOLOMINL  483 


NEUMANN. 

Ay,  he  too  is  one  of  those  to  whom  they  confide  too  much.  He 
calls  himself  Maradas,  a  Spaniaid  is  he. 

MASTER  OF  THE  CELLAR,  (impatiently.} 

Spaniard  !  Spaniard  !  I  tell  you,  friend,  nothing  good  conies 
of  these  Spaniards.  All  these  outlandish  fellows  *  are  little  better 
than  rogues. 

NEUMANN. 

Fie,  fie  !  you  should  not  say  so,  friend.  There  are  among  them 
our  very  best  generals,  and  those  on  whom  the  Duke  at  this  mo 
ment  relies  the  most. 

MASTER  OP  THE  CELLAR,  (taking  the  flask  out  of  the  Runner's 

pocket.} 
My  son,  it  will  be  broken  to  pieces  in  your  pocket. 

[Tertsky  hurries  in,  fetches  away  the  paper,  and  calls  to 
a  servant  for  pen  and  ink,  and  goes  to  the  back  of  the 
stage. 

MASTER  OF  THE  CELLAR,  (to  the  Servants.) 
The  Lieutenant-General  stands  up. — Be  on  the  watch. — Now  ! 
They  break  up. — Off,  and  move  back  the  forms  ! 

[They  rise  at  all  the  tables,  the  servants  hurry  off  the  front 
of  the  stage  to  the  tables ;  part  o*  the  guests  come  for- 
ward. 

SCENE  XIII. 

[OCTAVIO  PICCOLOMINI  enters  in  conversation  with  MARADAS, 
and  both  place  themselves  quite  on  the  edge  of  the  stage  on 
one  side  of  the  proscenium.  On  the  side  directly  opposite, 
MAX.  PICCOLOMINI,  by  himself,  lost  in  thought,  and  taking 
no  part  in  anything  that  is  going  forward.  The  middle 
space  between  both,  but  rather  more  distant  from  the  edge  of 
the  stage,  is  filled  up  by  BUTLER,  ISOLANI,  GOETZ,  TIEFEN- 
BACH,  and  KOLATTO. 

ISOLAXI.  (while  the  company  is  coming  forward.} 
Good   night,  good   night,   Kolatto !   Good   night,   Lieutenant- 
General  ! — I  should  rather  say  good  morning. 

*  There  is  a  humor  in  the  original  which  cannot  be  given  in  the  translation.  '  Die 
welschen  alle,'  &c.,  which  word  in  classical  German  means  the  Italians  alone  ;  but  in  its 
first  sense,  and  at  present  in  the  vulgar  use  of  the  word,  it  signifies  foreigners  in  gene- 
ral. Our  word  walluuts,  I  suppose,  means  outlandish  nuts  — Wallae  nuces,  in  German 
'W«lschnusse.'— T. 


4»4  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


GOETZ.  (to  Tiefenbach.) 
Noble  brother  !        [making  the  usual  compliment  after  meals. 

TIEFENBACH. 
Ay  1  'twas  a  royal  feast  indeed. 

GOETZ. 

Yes,  my  Lady  Countess  understands  these  matters.  Her 
mother-in-law,  heaven  rest  her  soul,  taught  her  ! — All !  that  was 
a  housewife  for  you. 

TIEFENBACH. 
There  was  not  her  like  in  all  Bohemia  for  setting  cut  a  table. 

OCTAVIO.  (aside  to  Maradas.) 

Do  me  the  favor  to  talk  to  me — talk  of  what  you  will — or  of 

nothing.     Only  preserve  the  appearance  at  least  of  talking.     I 

would  not  wish  to  stand  up  my  myself,  and  yet  I  conjecture  that 

there  will  be  goings  on  here  worthy  of  our  attentive  observation. 

[He  continues  to  fix  his  eye  on  the  whole  following  scene. 

ISOLANI.  (on  the  point  of  going.) 
Lights,  lights ! 

TERTSKY.  (advances  with  the  paper  to  Isolani.) 
Noble  brother !  two  minutes  longer !   here  is  something  to  sub- 
scribe. 

ISOLANI. 

Subscribe  as  much  as  you  like— but  you  must  excuse  me  from 
reading  it. 

TERTSKY. 

There  is  no  need.  It  is  the  oath  which  you  have  already  read. 
— Only  a  few  marks  of  your  pen  ! 

[Isolani  hands  over  the  paper  to  Octavio  respectfully. 

TERTSKY. 

Nay,  nay,  first  come  first  served.     There  is  no  precede  nee  here. 

[Octavio  runs  over  the  paper  with  apparent  indifference, 

Tertsky  watches  him  at  some  distance. 

GOETZ.  (to  Tertsky.} 
Noble  Count !  with  your  permission — Good  night. 

TERTSKY. 

Where's  the  hurry  ?  Come,  one  other  composing  draught— 
(To  the  servants.) — Ho ! 


THE  PICCCLOMIN2. 


GOETZ. 
Excuse  ine  —  an't  able. 

TERTSKY. 
A  thimble-full  ! 

GOETZ. 
Excuse  me. 

TlEFENBACH.    (sits  down.) 

Pardon  me,  nobles.  —  This  standing  does  not  agree  with  ine< 

TKRTSKY. 
Consult  only  your  own  convenience,  General. 

TlEFENBACH. 

Clear  at  head,  sound  in  stomach  —  only  my  legs  won't  carry  nit 
any  longer. 

ISOLANI.  (pointing  at  his  corpulence.) 
Poor  legs  !  how  should  they  ?     Such  an  unmerciful  load  ! 

[Octavio  subscribes  his  name,  and  reaches  over  the  paper 
to  Tertsky,  who  gives  it  to  Isolani  ;  and  he  goes  to  the 
table  to  sign  his  name. 

TlEFENBACH. 

'Twas  that  war  in  Pomerania  that  first  brought  it  on.  Out  in 
at!  weathers  —  ice  and  snow  —  no  help  for  it.  —  I  shall  never  get  the 
better  of  it  all  the  days  of  my  life. 

GOETZ. 

Why,  in  simple  verity,  your  Swede  makes  no  nice  inquiries 
about  the  season. 

TERTSKY.  (observing  Isolani,  whose  hand  trembles  excessively,  so 

that  he  can  scarcely  direct  his  pen.) 

Have  you  had  that  ugly  complaint  long,  noble  brother?  — 
Despatch  it. 

ISOLANI. 

The  sins  of  youth  !  I  have  already  tried  the  Chalybeate  waters. 
Well—  I  must  bear  it. 

[Tertsky  gives  the  paper  to  Maradas  ;  he  steps  to  the  table 
to  subscribe. 

OCTAVIO.  (advancing  to  Butler.) 

You  are  not  over-fond  of  the  orgies  of  Bacchus,  Colonel.  I  have 
observed  it.  You  would,  I  think,  find  yourself  more  to  your  liking 
in  the  uproar  of  a  battle,  than  of  a  feast. 


486  COLERIDGE 'S  POEMS. 

BUTLER. 
I  must  confess,  'tis  not  in  my  way. 

OCTAVIO,  (stepping  nearer  to  him  friendlily .) 

Nor  in  mine  either,  I  can  assure  you  ;  and  I'm  not  a  little 
giad,  my  much-honored  Colonel  Butler,  that  we  agree  so  well  in 
our  opinions.  A  half-dozen  good  friends  at  most,  at  a  small  round 
table,  a  glass  of  genuine  Tokay,  open  hearts,  and  a  rational  con- 
versation— that's  my  taste  ! 

BUTLER. 
And  mine  too,  when  it  can  be  had. 

I  The  paper  comes  to  Tiefenbach,  who  glances  over  it  at  the 
same  time  with  Goetz  and  Kolatto.  Maradas  in  the 
mean  time  returns  to  Octavio.  All  this  takes  place,  the 
conversation  with  Butler  proceeding  uninterrupted. 

OCTAVIO.  (introducing  Maradas  to  Butler.) 

Don  Balthasar  Maradas !  likewise  a  man  of  our  stamp,  and 
long  ago  your  admirer.  [Butler  bows. 

OCTAVIO.  (continuing.) 
You  are  a  stranger  here — 'twas  but  yesterday  you  arrived  ; — 
you  are  ignorant  of  the  ways  arid  means  here.  'Tis  a  wretched 
place — I  know,  at  our  age,  one  loves  to  be  snug  and  quiet — What 
if  you  moved  your  lodgings  ? — Come,  be  my  visitor.  (Butler  makes 
a  low  bow.)  Nay,  without  compliment ! — For  a  friend  like  you, 
1  have  still  a  corner  remaining. 

BUTLER,  (coldly.} 

Your  obliged  humble  servant,  my  Lord  Lieutenant-General. 
[The  paper  comes  to  Butler,  who  goes  to  the  table  to  sub- 
scribe it.     The  front  of  the  stage  is  vacant,  so  that  both 
the  Piccolominis,  each  on  the  side  where  he  had  been 
from  the  commencement  of  the  scene,  remain  alone. 

OCTAVIO.  (After  having  some  time  watched  his  son  in  silence^  ad" 

vances  somewhat  nearer  to  him.) 
You  were  long  absent  from  us,  friend ! 

MAX. 
I— —urgent  business  detained  me. 

OCTAVIO. 
And,  I  observe,  you  are  still  absent ! 


THE  PICCOLOMINI.  4»7 


MAX. 
You  know  this  crowd  and  bustle  always  make  me  silent. 

OCTAVIO.  (advancing  still  nearer.) 

May  I  be  permitted  to  ask  what  the  business  was  that  detained 
you  ? — Tertsky  knows  it  without  asking  ! 

MAX. 

What  does  Tertsky  know  ? 

OCTAVIO. 
He  was  the  only  one  who  did  not  miss  you. 

ISOLANI.  (who  has  been  attending  to  them  from  some  distance, 

steps  up.) 

Well  done,  father !     Rout  out  his  baggage  !     Beat  up  his  quar- 
ters I     There  is  something  there  that  should  not  be. 

TERTSKY.  (with  the  paper.) 
Is  there  none  wanting  ?    Have  the  whole  subscribed  ? 

OCTAVIO. 
All. 

TERTSKY.  (calling  aloud.) 
Ho !  who  subscribes  ? 

BUTLER,  (to  Tertsky.) 
Count  the  names.    There  ought  to  be  just  thirty. 

TERTSKY. 
Here  is  a  cross. 

TlEFENBACH. 

That's  my  mar^. 

ISOLANI. 

He  cannot  write  ;  but  his  cross  is  a  good  cross,  and  is  honored 
toy  Jews  as  well  as  Christians. 

OCTAVIO.  (presses  on  to  Max.) 
Come,  General  ;  let  us  go.     It  is  late. 

TERTSKY. 
One  Piccolomini  only  has  signed. 

ISOLANI.  (pointing  to  Max.) 

Look  !  that  is  yonr  man,  that  statue  there,  who  has  had  neither 
eye,  ear,  nor  tongue  for  us  the  whole  evening. 

[ Max  receives  the  paper  from  Tertsky,  which  he  looks  upon 
vacantly. 


488  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

SCENE  XIV. 

\To  these  enter  ILLO  from  the  inner  room.  He  has  in  his  hand  the 
golden  service-cup,  and  is  extremely  distempered  with  drinking. 
GOETZ  and  BUTLER  follow  him,  endeavoring  to  keep  him  back.) 

ILLO. 
What  do  you  want?    Let  me  go. 

GOETZ  and  BUTLER. 
Drink  no  more,  Illo  1     For  heaven's  sake,  drink  no  more. 

ILLO.  (goes  up  to  Octavio,  and  shakes  him  cordially  by  the  hand, 

and  then  drinks.) 
Octavio  !  I  bring  this  to  you  !  Let  all  grudge  be  drowned  in 
this  friendly  bowl !  I  know  well  enough,  ye  never  loved  me — 
Devil  take  me  ! — and  I  never  loved  you  ! — I  am  always  even  with 
people  in  that  way  ! — Let  what's  past  be  past — that  is,  you  under- 
stand— forgotten  !  I  esteem  you  infinitely.  (Embracing  him  re- 
peatedly.} You  have  not  a  dearer  friend  on  earth  than  I — but 
that  you  know.  The  fellow  that  cries  rogue  to  you,  calls  me 
villain — and  I'll  strangle  him  ! — my  dear  friend ! 

TERTSKY.  (whispering  to  him.) 
Art  in  thy  senses  ?    For  heaven's  sake,  Illo  !  think  where  you 
ire. 

ILLO.  (aloud.} 

What  do  you  mean  ? — There  are  none  but  friends  here,  ar* 
there  ?  (Looks  round  the  whole  circle  with  a  jolly  and  triumph' 
int  air.)  Not  a  sneaker  among  us,  thank  heaven ! 

TERTSKY.  (to  Butler,  eagerly.) 
Take  him  off  with  you,  f^rce  him  off,  I  entreat  you,  Butler  I 

BUTLER,  (to  nio.) 
Field-Marshal !  a  word  with  you.     [Leads  him  to  the  side-board. 

ILLO.  (cordially.} 
A  thousand  for  one !     Fill — Fill  it  once  more  up  to  the  brim. — 
To  this  gallant  man's  health  1 

ISOLANI.  (to  Max,  who  all  the  while  has  been  staring  on  the  paper 

with  fixed  but  vacant  eyes.} 
Slow  and  sure,  my  noble  brother  ! — Hast  parsed  it  all  yet  ?— 
Some  words  yet  to  go  thro'  ?— LLa  ? — 


THE  PTCCOLOMIXr.  489 


MAX.  (waking  as  from  a  dream.) 
What  am  I  to  do  ? 

TERTSKY.  (and  at  the  same  time  Isolani.) 
Sign  your  name. 

[Octavio  directs  his  eyes  on  him  with  intense  anxiety* 

MAX.  (returns  the  paper.) 

Let  it  stay  till  to-morrow.  It  is  business — to-day  I  am  not 
sufficiently  collected.  Send  it  to  me  to-morrow. 

TERTSKY. 
Nay,  collect  yourself  a  little. 

ISOLANI. 

Awake,  man !  awake  ! — Come,  thy  signature,  and  have  done 
with  it !  What?  Thou  art  the  youngest  in  the  whole  company, 
and  wouldst  be  wiser  than  all  of  us  together  ?  Look  there  1  thy 
father  has  signed — we  have  all  signed. 

TERTSKY.  (to  Octavio.) 
Use  your  influence.     Instruct  him. 

OCTAVIO. 
My  son  is  at  the  age  of  discretion. 

ILLO.  (leaves  the  service-cup  on  the  sideboard.) 
What's  the  dispute  ? 

TERTSKY. 
He  declines  subscribing  the  paper. 

MAX. 
I  say,  it  may  as  well  stay  till  to-morrow. 

ILLO. 

It  cannot  stay.  We  have  all  subscribed  to  it — and  so  must 
you. — You  must  subscribe. 

MAX. 

Illo,  good-night. 

ILLO. 

No  !— You  come  not  off  so.  The  Duke  shall  learn  who  are  his 
friends.  [All  collect  round  Illo  and  Max. 


49°  COLE  RID  GE  *S  POEMS. 

MAX. 

What  my  sentiments  are  towards  the  Duke,  the  Duke  knows, 
every  one  knows — what  need  of  this  wild  stuff  ? 

ILLO. 

This  is  the  thanks  the  Duke  gets  for  his  partiality  to  Italians 
and  foreigners.  —  Us  Bohemians  he  holds  for  little  better  than 
dullards — nothing  pleases  him  but  what's  outlandish. 

TERTSKY.  (in  extreme  embarrassment,  to  the  commanders,  who  at 
Illo's  words  gave  a  sudden  start,  as  preparing  to  resent  them. 
It  is  the  wine  that  speaks  and  not  his  reason.    Attend  not  to 
him,  I  entreat  you. 

ISOLANI.  (with  a  bitter  laugh-) 
Wine  invents  nothing :  it  only  tattles. 

ILLO. 

He  who  is  not  with  me  is  against  me.  Your  tender  consciences  I 
Unless  they  can  slip  out  by  a  back-door,  by  a  puny  proviso  ! 

TERTSKY.  (interrupting  him.) 
He  is  stark  mad— don't  listen  to  him 

ILLO.  (raising  his  voice  to  the  highest  pitch.) 
Unless  they  can  slip  out  by  a  proviso. — What  of  the  proviso  ? 
The  devil  take  this  proviso  ! 

MAX.  (has  his  attention  roused,  and  looks  again  into  the  paper.) 
What  is  there  here  then  of  such  perilous  import  ?    You  make 
me  curious — I  must  look  closer  at  it. 

TERTSKY.  (in  a  low  voice  to  Illo.) 
What  are  you  doing  Illo  ?     You  are  ruining  us. 

TlEFENBACH.   (to  Kolatto.) 

Ay,  ay !  I  observed,  that  before  we  sat  down  to  supper,  it 
read  differently. 

GOETZ. 
Why,  I  seemed  to  think  so  too. 

ISOLANI. 

What  do  I  care  for  that !     Where  there  stand  other  nai 
mine  can  stand  too. 

TlEFENBACH. 

Before  supper  there  was  a  certain  proviso  therein,  or  short 
clause  concerning  our  duties  to  the  Emperor. 


THE  PICCOLOMINL  491 


BUTLER,  (to  one  of  the  commanders.) 

For  shame,  for  shame  !  Bethink  you.  What  is  the  main  busi- 
ness here  ?  The  question  now  is,  whether  we  shall  keep  our 
General,  or  let  him  retire.  One  must  not  take  these  things  too 
nicely  and  over-scrupulously. 

ISOLANI.  (to  one  of  the  generals.) 

Did  the  Duke  make  any  of  these  provisos  when  he  gave  you 
your  regiment  ? 

TERTSKY.  (to  Goetz.) 

Or  when  he  gave  you  the  office  of  army-purveyancer,  which 
brings  you  in  yearly  a  thousand  pistoles. 

ILLO. 

He  is  a  rascal  who  makes  us  out  to  be  rogues.  If  there  be  any 
one  that  wants  satisfaction,  let  him  say  so.  I  am  his  man. 

TlEFENBACH. 

Softly,  softly  !     TTwas  but  a  word  or  two. 

MAX.  (having  read  the  paper  gives  it  back.) 
Till  to-morrow,  therefore  ! 

ILLO.  (stammering  with  rage  and  fury,  loses  all  command  over 
himself,  and  presents  the  paper  to  Max.  with  one  hand,  and 
his  sword  in  the  other.) 
Subscribe — Judas ! 

ISOLANI. 
Out  upon  you,  Illol 

OCTAVIO,  TERTSKY,  BUTLER,  (all  together.) 
Down  with  the  sword. 

MAX.  (rushes  on  him  suddenly  and  disarms  him,  then  to  Count 

Tertsky.) 
Take  him  off  to  bed. 

[Masb.  leaves  the  stage.  Illo  cursing  and  raving  is  held 
back  by  some  of  the  officers,  and  amidst  a  universal  con- 
fusion the  curtain  drops. 


49  2  COLERIDGE VS  POEMS. 

ACT  III. 

Scene,  a  chamber  in  Piccolomini' s  Mansion.— It  is  Night. 
SCENE  I. 

OCTAVIO   PICCOLOMINI.      A    VALET    DE    CHAMBRE,    with    Lights. 

OCTAVIO. 

And  when  ruy  son  conies  in,  conduct  him  hither. 

What  is  the  hour  ? 

VALET. 
'Tis  on  the  point  of  morning. 

OCTAVIO. 

Set  down  the  light.  We  mean  not  to  undress. 
You  may  retire  to  sleep. 

[Exit  Valet.  Octavio  paces,  musing,  across  the  chamber. 
Max.  Piccolomini  enters  unobserved,  and  looks  at  his 
father  for  some  moments  in  silence. 

MAX. 

Art  thou  offended  with  me  ?     Heaven  knows 
That  odious  business  was  no  fault  of  mine. 
'Tis  true,  indeed,  I  saw  thy  signature. 
What  thou  hadst  sanctioned  should  not,  it  might  seem, 
Have  come  amiss  to  me.     But — 'tis  my  nature — 
Thou  know'st,  that  in  such  matters  I  must  follow 
My  own  light,  not  another's. 

OCTAVIO.  (goes  up  to  him,  and  embraces  him.) 

Follow  it, 

O  follow  it  still  further,  my  best  son  ! 
To-riight,  dear  boy  !  it  hath  more  faithfully 
Guided  thee  than  th'  example  of  thy  father. 

MAX. 
Declare  thyself  less  darkly. 

OCTAVIO. 

I  will  do  so. 

For  after  what  has  taken  place  this  night, 
There  must  remain  no  secrets  'twixt  us  two. 

[Both  seat  themselves. 

Max.  Piccolomini  ;  what  think'st  thou  of 
The  oath  that  was  sent  round  for  signatures  ? 


THE  PICCOLOMINI.  493 

MAX. 

I  hold  it  for  a  thing  of  harmless  import, 
Although  I  like  not  these  set  declarations. 

OCTAVIO. 

•And  on  no  other  ground  hast  thou  refused 
The  signature  they  fain  had  wrested  from  thee? 

MAX. 

It  was  a  serious  business 1  was  absent— 

The  affair  itself  seemed  not  so  urgent  to  me. 

OCTAVIO. 
Be  open,  Max.    Thou  hadst  then  no  suspicion  ? 

MAX. 

Suspicion  !  what  suspicion  ?    Not  the  least. 

OCTAVIO. 

Thank  thy  good  angel,  Piccolomini ; 
He  drew  thee  back  unconscious  from  the  abyss. 

MAX. 

I  know  not  what  thou  meanest. 
OCTAVIO. 

I  will  tell  thee. 

Fain  would  they  have  extorted  from  thee,  son, 
The  sanction  of  thy  name  to  villany  ; 
Yea,  with  a  single  flourish  of  thy  pen, 
Made  thee  renounce  thy  duty  and  thy  honor ! 

MAX.  (rises.) 
Octavio ! 

OCTAVIO. 

Patience  !     Seat  yourself.     Much  yet 
Hast  thou  to  learn  from  me,  friend  ! — hast  for  years 
Lived  in  incomprehensible  illlusion. 
Before  thine  eyes  is  treason  drawing  out 
As  black  a  web  as  e'er  was  spun  from  venom  : 
A  power  of  hell  o'erclouds  thy  understanding. 
I  dare  no  longer  stand  in  silence — dare 
No  longer  see  thee  wandering  on  in  darkness, 
Nor  pluck  the  bandage  from  thine  eyes. 

MAX. 

My  father ! 
Yet,  ere  thou  speak'st,  a  moment's  pause  of  thought. 


494  COLERIDGE 'S  POEMS. 

If  your  disclosures  should  appear  to  be 
Conjectures  only — arid  almost  I  fear 
They  will  be  nothing  further — spare  them !  I 
Am  not  in  that  collected  mood  at  present, 
That  I  could  listen  to  them  quietly. 

OCTAVIO. 

The  deeper  cause  thou  hast  to  hate  this  life, 

The  more  impatient  cause  have  I,  my  son, 

To  force  it  on  thee.     To  the  innocence 

And  wisdom  of  thy  heart  I  could  have  trusted  thee 

With  calm  assurance — but  I  see  the  net 

Preparing—  and  it  is  thy  heart  itself 

Alarms  me  for  thine  innocence — that  secret, 

{fixing  his  eyes  steadfastly  on  his  son's  face. 
Which  thou  concealest,  forces  mine  from  me. 

[Max.  attempts  to  answer,  but  hesitates,  and  casts  Ms  eyes 
to  the  ground  embarrassed. 

OCTAVIO.  (after  a  pause.) 

Know,  then,  they  are  duping  thee  ; — a  most  foul  game 
With  thee  and  with  us  all — nay,  hear  me  calmly — 
The  Duke  even  now  is  playing.     He  assumes 
The  mask,  as  if  he  would  forsake  the  army  ; 
And  in  this  moment  makes  he  preparations 
That  army  from  the  Emperor — to  steal, 
And  carry  it  over  to  the  enemy ! 

MAX. 

That  low  priest's  legend  I  know  well,  but  did  not 
Expect  to  hear  it  from  thy  mouth. 

OCTAVIO. 

That  mouth, 
From  which  thou  hear'st  it  at  this  present  moment 

Doth  warrant  thee  that  it  is  no  priest's  legend. 

«> 

MAX. 

How  mere  a  maniac  they  suppose  the  Duke. 
What,  he  can  meditate  ?— the  Duke  ?— can  dream 
That  he  can  lure  away  full  thirty  thousand 
Tried  troops  and  true,  all  honorable  soldiers, 
More  than  a  thousand  noblemen  among  them, 
From  oaths,  from  duty,  from  their  honor  lure  them, 
Arid  make  them  all  unanimous  to  do 
A  deed  that  brands  them  scoundrels  ? 


THE  PICCOLOMINI.  495 


OCTAVIO. 

Such  a  deed, 

With  such  a  front  of  infamy,  the  Duke 
No  way  desires — what  he  requires  of  us 
Bears  a  far  gentler  appellation.     Nothing 
He  wishes,  but  to  give  the  empire  peace. 
And  so,  because  the  Emperor  hates  this  peace, 
Therefore  the  Duke — the  Duke  will  force  him  to  it. 
All  parts  of  the  empire  will  he  pacify. 
And  for  his  trouble  will  retain  in  payment 
(What  he  has  already  in  his  gripe) — Bohemia ! 

MAX. 

Has  he,  Octavio,  merited  of  us, 
That  we — we  should  think  so  vilely  of  him  ? 

OCTAVIO. 

What  we  would  think  is  not  the  question  here. 
The  affair  speaks  for  itself — and  clearest  proofs ! 
Hear  me,  my  son — 'tis  not  unknown  to  thee, 
In  what  ill  credit  with  the  court  we  stand. 
But  little  dost  thou  know  or  guess  what  tricks, 
What  base  intrigues,  what  lying  artifices, 
Have  been  employed — for  this  sole  end — to  sow 
Mutiny  in  the  camp  I     All  bands  are  loosed — 
Loosed  all  the  bands  that  link  the  officer 
To  his  liege  Emperor,  all  that  bind  the  soldier 
Affectionately  to  the  citizen. 
Lawless  he  stands,  and  threat'ningly  beleaguers 
The  state  he's  bound  to  guard.     To  such  a  height 
'Tis  swolii,  that  at  this  hour  the  Emperor 
Before  his  armies — his  own  armies — trembles ; 
Yea,  in  his  capital,  his  palace,  fears 
The  traitors'  poniards,  and  is  meditating 

To  hurry  off  and  hide  his  tender  offspring 

Not  from  the  Swedes,  not  from  the  Lutherans — 
No  1  from  his  own  troops  hide  and  hurry  them  ! 

MAX. 

Cease,  cease  !  thou  tortur'st,  shatter'st  me.     I  know 
That  oft  we  tremble  at  an  empty  terror ; 
But  the  false  phantasm  brings  a  real  misery. 

OCTAVIO. 

It  is  no  phantasm.    An  intestine  war, 
Of  all  the  most  unnatural  and  cruel. 


496  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


Will  burst  out  into  flames,  if  instantly 
We  do  riot  fly  and  stifle  it.     The  Generals 
Are  many  of  them  long  ago  won  over ; 
The  subalterns  are  vacillating — whole 
Regiments  and  garrisons  are  vacillating. 
To  foreigners  our  strong-holds  are  entrusted 
To  that  suspected  Schafgotch  is  the  whole 
Force  of  Silesia  given  up  ;  to  Tertsky 
Five  regiments,  foot  and  horse — to  Isolani, 
To  Illo,  Kinsky,  Butler,  the  best  troops. 

MAX. 

Likewise  to  both  of 

OCTAVIO. 

Because  the  Duke 

Believes  he  has  secured  us — means  to  lure  us 
Still  further  on  by  splendid  promises. 
To  me  he  portions  forth  the  princedoms  Glatz 
And  Sagan  ;  and  too  plain  I  see  the  angel 
With  which  he  doubts  not  to  catch  thee. 

MAX. 

No !  no ! 
I  tell  thee — no 

OCTAVIO. 

O  open  ye  thine  eyes  1 

And  to  what  purpose  think'st  thou  he  has  called  us 
Hither  to  Pilsen?    To  avail  himself 
Of  our  advice  ?     O  when  did  Friedland  ever 
Need  our  advice  ?    Be  calm,  and  listen  to  me. 
To  sell  ourselves  are  we  called  hither,  and 
Decline  we  that — to  be  his  hostages. 
Therefore  doth  noble  Galas  stand  aloof  ; 
Thy  father,  too,  thou  would'st  not  have  seen  here, 
If  higher  duties  had  not  held  him  fettered. 

MAX. 

He  makes  no  secret  of  it — needs  make  none — 
That  we're  called  hither  for  his  sake — he  owns  it. 
He  needs  our  aidance  to  maintain  himself — 
He  did  so  much  for  us  ;  and  'tis  but  fair  ' 
That  we,  too,  should  do  somewhat  now  for  him. 

OCTAVIO. 

And  know'st  thou  what  it  is  which  we  must  do  ? 
That  Illo's  drunken  mood  betrayed  it  to  thee. 


THE  PICCOLO MINI.  497 


Bethink  thyself — what  hast  them  heard,  what  seen  ? 
The  counterfeited  paper — the  omission 
Of  that  particular  clause,  so  full  of  meaning, 
Does  it  not  prove  that  they  would  bind  us  down 
To  nothing  good  ? 

MAX. 

That  counterfeited  paper 
Appears  to  me  no  other  than  a  trick 
Of  Illo's  own  device.     These  underhand 
Traders  in  great  men's  interests,  ever  use 
To  urge  and  hurry  all  things  to  the  extreme. 
They  see  the  Duke  at  variance  with  the  Court, 
And  fondly  think  to  serve  him,  when  they  widen 
The  breach  irreparably.     Trust  me,  father, 
The  Duke  knows  nothing  of  all  this. 

OCTAVIO. 

It  grieves  me 

That  I  must  dash  to  earth,  that  I  must  shatter 
A  faith  so  specious  ;  but  I  may  not  spare  thee ! 
For  this  is  not  a  time  for  tenderness. 
Thou  must  take  measures,  speedy  ones — must  act. 
I  therefore  will  confess  to  thee,  that  all 
Which  I've  intrusted  to  thee  now — that  all 
Which  seems  to  thee  so  unbelievable, 
That—yes,  I  will  tell  thee— (a  pause}— Max.,  I  had  it  all 
From  his  own  mouth — from  the  Duke's  mouth  I  had  it. 

MAX.  (in  excessive  agitation.) 
No  I — no ! — never ! 

OCTAVIO. 

Himself  confided  to  ine 

What  I,  'tis  true,  had  long  before  discovered 
By  other  means — himself  confided  to  me, 
That  'twas  his  settled  plan  to  join  the  Swedes  1 
And,  at  the  head  of  the  united  armies, 

Compel  the  Emperor 

MAX. 

He  is  passionate. 

The  Court  has  stung  him — he  is  sore  all  over 
With  injuries  and  affronts  ;  and  in  a  moment 
Of  irritation,  what  if  he,  for  once, 
Forgot  himself  ?    He's  an  impetuous  man. 

OCTAVIO. 

Nay,  in  cold  blood,  he  did  confess  this  to  me: 

32 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


And  having  construed  my  astonishment 
Into  a  scruple  of  his  power,  he  showed  me 
His  written  evidences  —  showed  me  letters, 
Both  from  the  Saxon  and  the  Swede,  that  gave 
Promises  of  aidance,  and  denned  th'  amount. 

MAX. 

It  cannot  be  !  —  can  not  be  !  —  can  not  be  ! 
Dost  thou  not  see,  it  cannot  ! 
Thou  wouldest  of  necessity  have  shown  him 
Such  horror,  such  deep  loathing  —  that  or  he 
Had  taken  thee  for  his  better  genius,  or 
Thou  stood'st  not  now  a  living  man  before  me— 

OCTAVIO. 

I  have  laid  open  my  objections  to  him, 
Dissuaded  him  with  pressing  earnestness  ; 
But  my  abhorrence,  the  full  sentiment 
Of  my  whole  heart  —  that  I  have  still  kept  sacred 
To  my  own  consciousness. 

MAX. 

And  thou  hast  been 

So  treacherous  ?    That  looks  not  like  my  father  t 
I  trusted  not  thy  words,  when  thou  didst  tell  me 
Evil  of  him  ;  much  less  can  I  now  do  it, 
That  thou  calumniatestthy  own  self. 

OCTAVIO. 
I  did  not  thrust  myself  into  his  secresy. 

MAX. 
Uprightness  merited  his  confidence. 

OCTAVIO. 
He  was  no  longer  worthy  of  sincerity. 

MAX. 

Dissimulation,  sure,  was  still  less  worthy 
Of  thee,  Octavio  I 

OCTAVIO. 

Gave  I  him  a  cause 
To  entertain  a  scruple  of  iny  honor  ? 

MAX. 
That  he  did  not,  evinced  his  confidence. 


THE  PICCOLOMINL  499 


OCTAVIO. 

Dear  son,  it  is  not  always  possible 
Still  to  preserve  that  infant  purity 
Which  the  voice  teaches  in  our  inmost  heart. 
Still  in  alarm,  for  ever  on  the  watch 
Against  the  wiles  of  wicked  men,  e'en  Virtue 
Will  sometimes  bear  away  her  outward  robes 
Soiled  in  the  wrestle  with  Iniquity. 
This  is  the  curse  of  every  evil  deed, 
That,  propagating  still,  it  brings  forth  evil. 
I  do  not  cheat  my  better  soul  with  sophisms  ; 
I  but  perform  my  orders  ;  the  Emperor 
Prescribes  my  conduct  to  me.     Dearest  boy, 
Far  better  were  it,  doubtless,  if  we  all 
Obeyed  the  heart  at  all  times  ;  but  so  doing, 
In  this  our  present  sojourn  with  bad  men, 
We  must  abandon  many  an  honest  object. 
'Tis  now  our  call  to  serve  the  Emperor, 
By  what  means  he  can  best  be  served — the  heart 
May  whisper  what  it  will — this  is  our  call ! 

MAX. 

It  seems  a  thing  appointed  that  to-day 
I  should  not  comprehend,  not  understand  thee. 
The  Duke,  thou  say'st,  did  honestly  pour  out 
His  heart  to  thee,  but  for  an  evil  purpose  ; 
And  thou  dishonestly  hast  cheated  him 
For  a  good  purpose  ! — Silence,  I  entreat  thee— 
My  friend  thou  stealest  not  from  me — 
Let  me  not  lose  my  father  ? 

OCTAVIO.  (suppressing  resentment.) 
As  yet  thou  know'st  not  all,  my  son.     I  have 
Yet  somewhat  to  disclose  to  thee.  [After  a  pause 

Duke  Friedland 

Hath  made  his  preparations.     He  relies 
Upon  his  stars.     He  deems  us  unprovided, 
And  thinks  to  fall  upon  us  by  surprise. 
Yea,  in  his  dream  of  hope,  he  grasps  already 
The  golden  circle  in  his  hand.     He  errs. 
We  too  have  been  in  action — he  but  grasps 
His  evil  fate,  most  evil,  most  mysterious  I 

MAX. 

O  nothing  rash,  my  sire.     By  all  that's  good 
Let  me  invoke  thee — no  precipitation  I 


500  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


OCTAVIO. 

With  light  rtead  stole  he  on  his  evil  way, 
And  light  of  tread  hath  Vengeance  stole  on  after  him. 
Unseen  she  stands  already,  dark  behind  him — 
But  one  step  mere — he  shudders  in  her  grasp  ! 
Thou  hast  seen  Questenberg  with  me.     As  yet 
Thou  know'st  but  his  ostensible  commission — 
He  brought  with  him  a  private  one,  my  son, 
And  that  was  for  me  only. 

MAX. 

May  I  know  it  ? 

OCTAVIO.  (seizes  the  patent.) 

Max  !     [A  pause, 

In  this  disclosure  place  I  in  thy  hands 

The  Empire's  welfare  and  thy  father's  life. 
Dear  to  thy  inmost  heart  is  Wallenstein  : 
A  powerful  tie  of  love,  of  veneration, 
Hath  knit  thee  to  him  from  thy  earliest  youth. 
Thou  nourishest  the  wish — O  let  me  still 
Anticipate  thy  loitering  confidence  ! 
The  hope  thou  nourishest  to  knit  thyself 
Yet  closer  to  him 


OCTAVIO. 

O  my  son  I 

I  trust  thy  heart  undoubtingly.     But  am  I 
Equally  sure  of  thy  collectedness  ? 
Wilt  thou  be  able,  with  calm  countenance, 
To  enter  this  man's  presence,  when  that  I 
Have  trusted  to  the  his  whole  fate  ? 

MAX. 

According 
As  thou  dost  trust  me,  father,  with  his  crime. 

[Octavio  takes  a  paper  out  of  his  escritoire,  and  gives  it  to  him. 

MAX. 

What  ?  how  ? — a  full  imperial  patent ! 

OCTAVIO. 

Read  it. 


THE  PICCOLOMINI.  501 


MAX.  (just  glances  on  it.) 
Duke  Friedland  sentenced  and  condemned  ! 

OCTAVIO. 

Even  so. 
MAX.    (throws  down  the  paper.) 

O  this  is  too  much !— O  unhappy  error  ! 

OCTAVIO. 
Read  on.     Collect  thyself. 

MAX.     (after  he  has  read  further  with  a  look  of  affright  and 
astonishment  on  his  father.) 

How  !  what ! — Thou  !— thou  ! 

OCTAVIO. 

But  for  the  present  moment,  till  the  King 
Of  Hungary  may  safely  join  the  army, 
Is  the  command  assigned  to  me. 

MAX. 

And  think'st  thou, 

Dost  thou  believe,  that  thou  wilt  tear  it  from  him? 
O  never  hope  it ! — Father  !  father  !  father ! 
An  inauspicious  office  is  enjoined  thee. 
This  paper  here — this  !  and  wilt  thou  enforce  it  ? 
The  mighty,  in  the  middle  of  his  host, 
Surrounded  by  his  thousands,  him  would'st  thou 
Disarm — degrade  !     Thou'rt  lost,  both  thou  and  all  of  us. 

OCTAVIO. 

What  hazard  I  incur  thereby,  I  know. 
In  the  great  hand  of  God  I  stand.     The  Almighty 
Will  cover  with  his  shield  the  imperial  house, 
Arid  shatter,  in  his  wrath,  the  work  of  darkness. 
The  Emperor  hath  true  servants  still ;  and,  even 
Here  in  the  camp,  there  are  enough  brave  men, 
Who  for  the  good  cause  will  fight  gallantly. 
The  faithful  have  been  warned — the  dangerous 
Are  closely  watched.     I  wait  but  the  first  step, 
And  then  immediately 

MAX. 

What !  on  suspicion  ? 
Immediately  ? 


50*  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


OCTAVIO. 

The  Emperor  is  no  tyrant. 
The  deed  alone  he'll  punish,  not  the  wish. 
The  I>uke  hath  yet  his  destiny  in  his  power. 
Let  him  but  leave  the  treason  uncompleted, 
He  will  be  silently  displaced  from  office, 
And  make  way  to  his  Emperor's  royal  son. 
An  honorable  exile  to  his  castles 
Will  be  a  benefaction  to  him  rather 
Than  punishment.     But  the  first  open  step 

MAX. 

What  call'st  thou  such  a  step  ?     A  wicked  step 
Ne'er  will  he  take  :  but  thou  might'st  easily, 
Yea,  thou  hast  done  it,  misinterpret  him. 

OCTAVIO. 

Nay,  howsoever  punishable  were 
Duke  Friedland's  purposes,  yet  still  the  steps 
Which  he  hath  taken  openly,  permit 
A  mild  construction.     It  is  my  intention 
To  leave  this  paper  wholly  unenforced 
Till  some  act  is  committed  which  convicts  him 
Of  a  high  treason,  without  doubt  or  plea, 
And  that  shall  sentence  him. 

MAX. 
But  who  the  judge  ? 

OCTAVIO. 
Thyself. 

MAX. 
Forever,  then,  this  paper  will  lie  idle. 

OCTAVIO. 

Too  soon,  I  fear,  its  powers  must  all  be  proved. 
After  the  counter-promise  of  this  evening, 
It  cannot  be  but  he  must  deem  himself 
Secure  of  the  majority  with  us; 
And  of  the  army's  general  sentiment 
He  hath  a  pleasing  proof  in  that  petition 
Which  thou  deliver'st  to  him  from  the  regiments. 
Add  this  too — I  have  letters  that  the  Rhinegrave 
Hath  changed  his  route,  and  travels  by  forced  marches 
To  the  Bohemian  Forest.     What  this  purports, 
Remains  unknown  ;  and,  to  confirm  suspicion, 
This  night  a  Swedish  iiobleniari  arrived  here. 


THE  PICCOLOMINI.  503 


MAX. 

I  have  thy  word.     Thou'lt  not  proceed  to  action 
Before  thou  hast  convinced  me — me  myself. 

OCTAVIO. 

[s  it  possible  ?     Still,  after  all  thou  know'st, 
Canst  thou  believe  still  in  his  innocence  ? 

MAX.     (with  enthusiasm.) 
Thy  judgment  may  mistake  ;  my  heart  cannot. 

[moderates  his  voice  and  manner, 
These  reasons  might  expound  thy  spirit  or  mine, 
But  they  expound  not  Friedland — I  have  faith  : 
For  as  he  knits  his  fortunes  to  the  stars, 
Even  so  doth  he  resemble  them  in  secret, 
Wonderful,  still  inexplicable  courses  ! 
Trust  me,  they  do  him  wrong.     All  will  be  solved. 
These  smokes,  at  once,  will  kindle  into  flame — 
The  edges  of  this  black  and  stormy  cloud 
Will  brighten  suddenly,  and  we  shall  view 
The  Unapproachable  glide  out  in  splendor. 

OCTAVIO. 
I  will  await  it. 

SCENE  II. 

OCTAVIO  and  MAX.  as  before.  To  them  the  VALET  OF  THE  CHAMBER. 

OCTAVIO. 
How  now,  then? 

VALET. 
A  despatch  is  at  the  door. 

OCTAVIO. 
So  early  ?     From  whom  comes  he  then  ?    Who  is  it  ? 

VALET. 

That  he  refused  to  tell  me. 

OCTAVIO. 

Lead  him  in  : 
And,  hark  you — let  it  not  transpire. 

[Exit  Valet— the  Cornet  steps  in, 
Ha  !  Cornet — is  it  you  ?  and  from  Count  Galas  ? 
Give  me  your  letters. 


5°4  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

CORNET. 

The  Lieutenant-general 
Trusted  it  not  to  letters. 

OCTAVIO. 

And  what  is  it  ? 
CORNET. 
He  bade  me  tell  you — Dare  I  speak  openly  here  ? 

OCTAVIO. 
My  son  knows  all. 

CORNET. 
We  have  him. 

OCTAVIO. 

Whom? 
CORNET. 

Sesina. 
The  old  negotiator. 

OCTAVIO.  (eagerly.) 

And  you  have  him  ? 

CORNET. 

In  the  Bohemian  Forest,  Captain  Mohrbrand 
Found  and  secured  him  yester-morning  early  : 
He  was  proceeding  then  to  Regenspurg, 
And  on  him  were  despatches  for  the  Swede. 

OCTAVIO. 
And  the  despatches 

CORNET. 

The  Lieutenant-general 
Sent  them  that  instant  to  Vienna,  and 
The  prisoner  with  them. 

OCTAVIO. 

This  is,  indeed,  a  tiding  ! 
/hat  fellow  is  a  precious  casket  to  us, 
.Inclosing  weighty  things. — Was  much  found  on  him  ? 

CORNET. 
&  think,  six  packets,  with  Count  Tertsky's  arms. 

OCTAVIO. 
A  >ne  in  the  Duke's  own  hand  ? 


THE  PICCOLOMINT.  505 


CORNET. 

Not  that  I  know. 

OCTAVIO. 
And  old  Sesina  ? 

CORNET. 

He  was  sorely  frightened. 
When  it  was  told  him  he  must  to  Vienna. 
But  the  Count  Altringer  bade  him  take  heart, 
Would  he  but  make  a  full  and  free  confession. 

OCTAVIO. 

Is  Altringer  then  with  your  lord  ?     I  heard 
That  he  lay  sick  at  Linz. 

CORNET. 

These  three  days  past 

He's  with  my  master,  the  Lieutenant-general, 
At  Frauemburg.     Already  have  they  sixty 
Small  companies  together,  chosen  men  : 
Respectfully  they  greet  you  with  assurances, 
That  they  are  only  waiting  your  commands. 

OCTAVIO. 

In  a  few  days  may  great  events  take  place. 
And  when  must  you  return  ? 

CORNET. 

I  wait  your  orders. 

OCTAVIO. 

Remain  till  evening. 
[Cornet  signifies  his  assent  and  obeisance,  and  is  going, 

OCTAVIO. 
No  one  saw  you — ha  ? 

CORNET. 

No  living  creature.     Thro'  the  cloister  wicket 
The  Capuchins,  as  usual,  let  me  in. 

OCTAVIO. 

Go,  rest  your  limbs,  and  keep  yourself  concealed, 
I  hold  it  probable,  that  yet  ere  evening 
I  shall  despatch  you.     The  development 
Of  this  affair  approaches  :  ere  the  day, 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


That  even  now  is  dawning  in  the  heaven, 

Ere  this  eventful  day  hath  set,  the  lot 

That  must  decide  our  fortunes  will  be  drawn.  [Exit  Cornet. 


SCENE  III. 

OCTAVIO  and  MAX.  PICCOLOMINI. 

OCTAVIO. 

Well — and  what  now,  son  ?    All  will  soon  be  clear, 

For  all,  I'm  certain,  went  thro'  that  Sesina. 
.  (who  through  the  whole  of  the  foregoing  scene  has  been  in  4 
violent  and  visible  struggle  of  feelings,  at  length  starts  as  one 
resolved.) 

I  will  procure  me  light  a  shorter  way. 

Farewell. 

OCTAVIO. 
Where  now  ? — Remain  here. 

MAX. 

To  the  Duke. 

OCTAVIO.  (alarmed.) 
What— 

MAX.  (returning.) 
If  thou  hast  believed  that  I  shall  act 

A  part  in  this  thy  play 

Thou  hast  miscalculated  on  me  grievously. 

My  way  must  be  straight  on.     True  with  the  tongue, 

False  with  the  heart — I  may  not,  cannot  be : 

Nor  can  I  suffer  that  a  man  should  trust  me — 

As  his  friend  trust  me — and  then  lull  my  conscience 

With  such  low  pleas  as  these  : — *  I  asked  him  not — 

He  did  it  all  at  his  own  hazard — and 

My  mouth  has  never  lied  to  him.' — No,  no! 

What  a  friend  takes  me  for,  that  I  must  be. 

— I'll  to  the  Duke  ;  ere  yet  this  day  is  ended 

Will  I  demand  of  him  that  he  do  save- 

His  good  name  from  the  world,  and  with  one  stride 

Break  through  and  rend  this  fine-spun  web  of  yours. 

He  can,  he  will  ! — 7  still  am  his  believer. 

Yet  I'll  not  pledge  myself,  but  that  those  letters 

May  furnish  you,  perchance,  with  proofs  against  him. 


THE  PICCOLOMINL  507 


How  far  may  not  this  Tertsky  have  proceeded — 

What  may  not  he  himself,  too,  have  permitted 

Himself  to  do,  to  snare  the  enemy, 

The  laws  of  war  excusing  ?     Nothing  save 

His  own  mouth  shall  convict  him — nothing  less ! 

And  face  to  face  will  I  go  question  him. 

OCTAVIO. 
Thou  wilt  ? 

MAX. 
I  will,  as  sure  as  this  heart  beats. 

OCTAVIO. 

I  have,  indeed,  miscalculated  on  thee. 
I  calculated  on  a  prudent  son, 
Who  would  have  blest  the  hand  beneficent 
That  plucked  him  back  from  the  abyss — and  lo  t 
A  fascinated  being  I  discover, 

Whom  his  two  eyes  befool,  whom  passion  wilders, 
Whom  not  the  broadest  light  of  noon  can  heal. 
Go,  question  him  ! — Be  mad  enough,  I  pray  thee. 
The  purpose  of  thy  father,  of  thy  Emperor, 
Go,  give  it  up  free  booty ! — Force  me,  drive  me 
To  an  open  breach  before  the  time.     And  now, 
Now  that  a  miracle  of  heaven  had  guarded 
My  secret  purpose  even  to  this  hour, 
And  laid  to  sleep  Suspicion's  piercing  eyes, 
Let  me  have  lived  to  see  that  mine  own  son, 
With  frantic  enterprise,  annihilates 
My  toilsome  labors  and  state-policy. 

MAX. 

Ay — this  state-policy  !     O  how  I  curse  it ! 
You  will  some  time,  with  your  state-policy, 
Compel  him  to  the  measure  :  it  may  happen, 
Because  ye  are  determined  that  he's  guilty, 
Guilty  ye'll  make  him.     All  retreat  cut  off, 
You  close  up  every  outlet,  hem  him  in 
Narrower  and  narrower,  till  at  length  ye  force  him 
Yes,  ye, — ye  force  him,  in  his  desperation, 
To  set  fire  to  his  prison.     Father  !  father  ! 
That  never  can  end  well — it  cannot — will  not  I 
And  let  it  be  decided  as  it  may, 
I  see  with  boding  heart  the  near  approach 
Of  an  ill-starred  unblest  catastrophe. 
For  this  great  Monarch-spirit,  if  he  fall, 


508  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

Will  drag  a  world  into  the  ruin  with  him. 
And  as  a  ship,  that  midway  on  the  ocean 
Takes  fire,  at  once,  and  with  a  thunder-burst, 
Explodes,  and  with  itself  shoots  out  its  crew 
In  smoke  and  ruin  betwixt  sea  and  heaven; 
So  will  he,  falling,  draw  down  in  his  fall 
All  us,  who're  fixed  and  mortised  to  his  fortune. 
Deem  of  it  what  thou  wilt ;  but  pardon  me, 
That  I  must  bear  me  on  in  my  own  way. 
All  must  remain  pure  betwixt  him  and  me  ; 
And,  ere  the  daylight  dawns  it  must  be  known 
Which  I  must  lose — my  father  or  my  friend. 

[During  his  exit  the  curtain  drops. 


ACT  IV. 

Scene — a  room  fitted  up  for  astrological  labors,  and  provided  with 
celestial  charts,  with  globes,  telescopes,  quadrants,  and  other 
mathematical  instruments. — Seven  colossal  figures,  represent- 
ing the  planets,  each  with  a  transparent  star  of  a  different 
color  on  its  head,  stand  in  a  semi-circle  in  the  background,  so 
that  Mars  and  Saturn  are  nearest  the  eye. — The  remainder  of 
the  scene,  and  its  disposition,  is  given  in  the  fourth  scene  of 
the  second  act. — There  must  be  a  curtain  over  the  figures, 
which  may  be  dropped,  and  conceal  them  on  occasions. 
[In  the  fifth  scene  of  this  act  it  must  be  dropped:  but,  in  the 
seventh  scenet  it  must  be  again  drawn  up  wholly  or  in 
part.} 


SCENE  I. 

WALLENSTEIN  at  a  back  table,  on  which  a  speculum  astrologicum 
is  described  with  chalk.  SENI  is  taking  observations  through 
a  window. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

All  well— and  now  let  it  be  ended  Seni.— Come, 
The  dawn  commences,  and  Mars  rules  the  hour. 
We  must  give  o'er  the  operation.    Coine, 
We  know  enough. 


THE  PICCOLOMINL  509 


SENI. 

Tour  Highness  must  permit  me 
Just  to  contemplate  Venus.     She's  now  rising : 
Like  as  a  sun,  so  shines  she  in  the  east. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

She  is  at  present  in  her  perigee, 

And  shoots  down  now  her  strongest  influences. 

[Contemplating  the  figure  on  the  table. 
Auspicious  aspect — fateful  in  conjunction, 
At  length  the  mighty  three  corradiate  ; 
And  the  two  stars  of  blessing,  Jupiter 
And  Venus,  take  between  them  the  malignant 
Slily-malicious  Mars,  and  thus  compel 
Into  my  service  that  old  mischief- founder : 
For  long  he  viewed  me  hostilely,  and  ever 
With  beam  oblique,  or  perpendicular, 
Now  in  the  quartile,  now  in  the  secundan, 
Shot  his  red  lightnings  at  my  stars,  disturbing 
Their  blessed  influences  and  sweet  aspects. 
Now  they  have  conquered  the  old  enemy, 
And  bring  him  in  the  heavens  a  prisoner  to  me. 

SENI.  (who  has  come  down  from  the  window.) 
And  in  a  corner  house,  your  highness — think  of  that  1 
That  makes  each  influence  of  double  strength. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

And  sun  and  moon,  too,  in  the  sextile  aspect, 
The  soft  light  with  the  veh'ment — so  I  love  it. 
Sol  is  the  heart,  Luna  the  head  of  heaven. 
Bold  be  the  plan,  fiery  the  execution. 

SENI. 

And  both  the  mighty  lumina  by  no 
Maleficus  affronted.  Lo  !  Saturnus, 
Innocuous,  powerless,  in  cadente  domo. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The  empire  of  Saturnus  is  gone  by  : 
Lord  of  the  secret  birth  of  things  is  he  ; 
Within  the  lap  of  earth,  and  in  the  depths 
Of  the  imagination  dominates ; 
And  his  are  all  things  that  eschew  the  light. 
The  time  is  o'er  of  brooding  and  contrivance  ; 
For  Jupiter,  the  lustrous,  lordeth  now, 


5 1 0  COLE  RID  GE'S  POEMS. 

And  the  dark  work,  complete  of  preparation, 

He  draws  by  force  into  the  realm  of  light. 

Now  must  we  hasten  on  to  action,  ere 

The  scheme  and  most  auspicious  positure 

Parts  o'er  my  head,  and  takes  once  more  its  flight ; 

For  the  heavens  journey  still,  and  sojourn  not. 

[There  are  knocks  at  the  door. 
There's  some  one  knocking  there.     See  who  it  is. 

TERTSKY.  (from  without.) 
Open,  and  let  me  in. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
Ay — 'tis  Tertsky. 
What  is  there  of  such  urgence  ?    We  are  busy. 

TERTSKY.  (from  without.') 
Lay  all  aside  at  present,  I  entreat  you. 
It  suffers  no  delaying. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
Open,  Seni  ! 

[While  Seni  opens  the  door  for  Tertsky,  Wallenstein 
the  curtain  over  the  figures. 

TERTSKY.  (enters.) 

Hast  thou  already  heard  it  ?     He  is  taken. 
Galas  has  given  him  up  to  the  Emperor. 

[Seni  draws  off  the  Hack  table,  and  exit 

SCENE  II. 

WALLENSTEIN,  COUNT  TERTSKY. 

WALLENSTEIN.  (to  Tertsky.) 
Who  has  been  taken  ? — Who  is  given  up  ? 

TERTSKY. 

The  man  who  knows  our  secrets,  who  knows  every 
Negotiation  with  the  Swede  and  Saxon, 
Thro'  whose  hands  all  and  everything  has  passed— 

WALLENSTEIN.  (drawing  back.) 
Nay,  not  Sesina  ? — Say,  No  !  I  entreat  thee. 

TERTSKY. 
All  on  his  road  for  Regenspurg  to  the  Swede 


THE  PICCOIOMINT.  511 

He  was  plunged  down  upon  by  Galas'  agent, 

Who  had  been  long  in  ambush,  lurking  for  him. 

There  must  have  been  found  on  him  my  whole  packet 

To  Thur,  to  Kinsky,  to  Oxenstirn,  to  Arnheini  : 

All  this  is  in  their  hands  ;  they  have  now  an  insight 

Into  the  whole — our  measures,  and  our  motives. 


SCENE  III. 

To  them  enters  ILLO. 

ILLO.  (to  Tertsky.) 
Has  he  heard  it  ? 

TERTSKY. 
He  has  heard  it. 

ILLO.  (to  Wallenstein.) 

Think'st  thou  still 

To  make  thy  peace  with  the  Emp'ror,  to  regain 
His  confidence  ? — E'en  were  it  now  thy  wish 
To  abandon  all  thy  plans,  yet  still  they  know 
What  thou  hast  wished  ;  then  forward  thou  must  press 
Retreat  is  now  no  longer  in  thy  power. 

TERTSKY. 

They  have  documents  against  us,  and  in  hanua, 
Which  showed  beyond  all  power  of  contradiction — 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Of  my  hand-writing — no  iota.     Thee 
I  punish  for  thy  lies. 

ILLO. 

And  thou  believ'st 

That  what  this  man,  that  what  thy  sister's  husband 
Did  in  thy  name,  will  not  stand  on  thy  reckoning  ? 
His  word  must  pass  for  thy  word  with  the  Swede, 
And  not  with  those  that  hate  thee  at  Vienna. 

TERTSKY. 

In  writing  thou  gav'st  nothing — but  bethink  thee, 
Ho\v  far  thou  ventured\<t  by  word  of  mouth 
With  this  Sesina  ?     And  will  he  be  silent  ? 
If  he  can  save  himself  by  yielding  up 
Thy  secret  purposes,  will  he  retain  them  ? 


5 1 2  COLERIDGE  'S  POEMS. 

ILLO. 

Thyself  dost  not  conceive  it  possible  ; 
And  since  they  now  have  evidence  authentic 
How  far  thou  hast  already  gone,  speak  ! — tell  us, 
What  art  thou  waiting  for  ?    Thou  canst  no  longer 
Keep  thy  command  ;  and  beyond  hope  of  rescue 
Thou'rt  lost,  if  thou  resign'st  it. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

In  the  army 

Lies  my  security.     The  army  will  not 
Abandon  me.     Whatever  they  may  know, 
The  power  is  mine,  and  they  must  gulp  it  down — 
And  substitute  I  caution  for  my  fealty ; 
They  must  be  satisfied,  at  least  appear  so. 

ILLO. 

The  army,  Duke,  is  thine  now — for  this  moment — 
'Tis  thine  :  but  think  with  terror  on  the  slow, 
The  quiet  power  of  time.     From  open  vi'lence 
The  attachment  of  thy  soldiery  secures  thee 
To-day — to-morrow  ;  but  gra  nt'st  thou  them-  a  respite, 
Unheard,  unseen,  they'll  undermine  that  love 
On  which  thou  now  dost  feel  so  firm  a  footing. 
With  wily  theft  will  draw  away  from  thee 
One  after  th'  other 

WALLENSTEIN. 

'Tis  a  cursed  accident  I 

ILLO. 

O  I  will  call  it  a  most  blessed  one 
If  it  work  on  thee  as  it  ought  to  do, 
Hurry  thee  on  to  action — to  decision — 
The  Swedish  General 

WALLENSTEIN. 
He's  arrived ! — know'st  thou 
What  his  commission  is 

ILLO. 

To  thee  alone 
Will  he  intrust  the  purpose  of  his  coming. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

A  cursed,  cursed  accident! — Yes,  yes, 
S?isna  knows  too  much,  aud  wont  be  silent. 


THE  PICCOLOMINL  513 


TERTSKY. 

He's  a  Bohemian  fugitive  and  rebel, 
His  neck  is  forfeit.     Can  he  save  himself 
At  thy  cost,  think  you  he  will  scruple  it  ? 
And  if  they  put  him  to  the  torture,  will  he, 
Will  he,  that  dastardling  have  strength  enough — 

WALLENSTELN.  (lost  in  thought.) 
Their  confidence  is  lost — irreparable  ! 
And  I  may  act  what  way  I  will,  I  shall 
Be  arid  remain  for  ever  in  their  thought 
A  traitor  to  my  country.     How  sincerely 
Soever  I  return  back  to  my  duty, 
It  will  no  longer  help  me 

ILLO. 

Ruin  thee, 

That  it  will  do  !     Not  thy  fidelity, 
Thy  weakness  will  be  deemed  the  sole  occasion — 

WALLENSTEIN.  (pacing  up  and  down  in  extreme  agitation.) 
What !    I  must  realize  it  now  in  earnest, 
Because  I  toyed  too  freely  with  the  thought? 
Accursed  he  who  dallies  with  a  devil ! 
And  must  I — I  must  realize  it  now — 
Now,  while  I  have  the  power,  it  must  take  place  ? 

ILLO. 

Now — now — ere  they  can  ward  and  parry  it ! 

WALLENSTEIN.  (looking  at  the  paper  of  signatures.) 
I  have  the  Generals'  words — a  written  promise  ! 
Max.  Piccolomini  stands  not  here — how's  that  ? 

TERTSKY. 

It  was he  fancied 

ILLO. 

Mere  self-willedness. 
There  needed  no  such  thing  'twixt  him  and  you. 

WALLENSTEIX. 

He  is  quite  right — there  needeth  no  such  thing. 
The  regiments,  too,  deny  to  march  for  Flanders— » 
Have  sent  me  in  a  paper  of  remonstrance, 
And  openly  resist  the  imperial  orders. 
The  first  step  to  revolt's  already  taken. 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


ILLO. 

Believe  me,  thou  wilt  find  it  far  more  easy 
To  lead  them  over  to  the  enemy 
Than  to  the  Spaniard. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

I  will  hear,  however, 
What  the  Swede  has  to  say  to  me. 

ILLO.  (eagerly  to  Tertsky.) 

Go,  call  him  ! 
He  stands  without  the  door  in  waiting. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Stay! 

Stay  yet  a  little.     It  hath  taken  me 
All  by  surprise,  —  it  came  too  quick  upon  me  \ 
'Tis  wholly  novel  that  an  accident, 
With  its  dark  lordship,  and  blind  agency, 
Shall  force  me  on  with  it. 

ILLO. 

First  hear  him  only, 
And  after  weigh  it.  [Exeunt  Tertsky  and  Illo 


SCENE  IV. 


WALLENSTEIN.  (in  soliloquy.) 

Is  it  possible  ? 

Is't  so  ?    I  can  no  longer  what  I  would  ? 
No  longer  draw  back  at  my  liking  ?     I 
Must  do  the  deed  because  I  thought  of  it. 
And  fed  this  heart  here  with  a  dream?    Because 
I  did  not  scowl  temptation  from  my  presence, 
Dallied  with  thoughts  of  possible  fulfilment, 
Commenced  no  movement,  left  all  time  uncertain, 
And  only  kept  the  road,  the  access  open  ? 
By  the  great  God  of  Heaven  !  it  was  not 
My  serious  meaning,  it  was  ne'er  resolve. 
1  but  amused  myself  with  thinking  of  it. 


THE  PICCOLOMINl.  51$ 


The  free-will  tempted  me,  the  power  to  do 

Or  not  to  do  it. — Was  it  criminal 

To  make  the  fancy  minister  to  hope, 

To  fill  the  air  with  pretty  toys  of  air, 

And  clutch  fantastic  sceptres  moving  towards  ine  ? 

Was  not  the  will  kept  free  ?     Beheld  I  not 

The  road  of  duty  close  beside  me — but 

One  little  step,  and  once  more  I  was  in  it ! 

Where  am  I  ?     Whither  have  I  been  transported  ? 

No  road,  no  track  behind  me,  but  a  wall, 

Impenetrable,  insurmountable, 

Rises  obedient  to  the  spells  I  muttered 

And  meant  not — my  own  doings  tower  behind  ine. 

[Pauses  and  remains  in  deep  thought. 
A  punishable  man  I  seem,  the  guilt, 
Try  what  I  will,  I  cannot  roll  off  from  me  ; 
The  equivocal  demeanor  of  my  life 
Bears  witness  on  my  prosecutor's  party  ; 
And  even  my  purest  acts  from  purest  motives 
Suspicion  poisons  with  malicious  gloss. 
Were  I  that  thing  for  which  I  pass,  that  traitor, 
A.  goodly  outside  I  had  sure  reserved, 
Had  drawn  the  covering  thick  and  double  round  me, 
Been  cairn  and  chary  of  my  utterance. 
But  being  conscious  of  the  innocence 
Of  my  intent,  my  uncorrupted  will, 
I  gave  way  to  my  humors,  to  my  passion  : 
Bold  were  my  words,  because  my  deeds  were  not. 
Now  every  planless  measure,  chance  event, 
The  threat  of  rage,  the  vaunt  of  joy  and  triumph, 
And  all  the  May-games  of  a  heart  o'erfiowing, 
Will  they  connect,  and  weave  them  all  together 
Into  one  web  of  treason  :  all  will  be  plain, 
My  eye  ne'er  absent  from  the  far-off  mark, 
Step  tracing  step,  each  step  a  politic  progress  ; 
And  out  of  all  they'll  fabricate  a  charge 
So  specious,  that  I  must  myself  stand  dumb. 
I'm  caught  in  my  own  net,  and  only  force, 

Nought  but  a  sudden  rent,  can  liberate  me.  [Pauses  again 

How  else  !  since  that  the  heart's  unbiassed  instinct 
Impelled  me  to  the  daring  deed,  which  now 
Necessity,  self-perservation,  orders. 
Stern  is  the  on-look  of  necessity, 
Not  without  shudder  may  a  human  hand 
Grasp  the  mysterious  urn  of  destiny. 
My  deed  was  mine,  remaining  in  my  bosom. 


5 1 6  COLE  RID  GE'S  POEMS. 

Once  suffered  to  escape  from  its  safe  corner 
Within  the  heart,  its  nursery  and  birth-place, 
Sent  forth  into  the  foreign,  it  belongs 
Fer  ever  to  those  sly  malicious  powers 
Whom  never  art  of  man  conciliated. 

[Paces  in  agitation  through  the  chamber,  then  pauses,  and 

after  the  pause,  breaks  out  again  into  audible  soliloquy. 
What  is  thy  enterprise  ?  thy  aim  ?  thy  object  ? 
Hast  honestly  confessed  it  to  thyself? 
Power  seated  on  a  quiet  throne  thou'dst  shake, 
Power-on  an  ancient  consecrated  throne, 
Strong  in  possession,  founded  in  old  custom  ; 
Power  by  a  thousand  tough  and  stringy  roots 
Fixed  to  the  people's  pious  nursery-faith. 
This,  this  will  be  no  strife  of  strength  with  strength. 
That  feared  I  not.     I  brave  each  combatant, 
Whom  I  can  look  on,  fixing  eye  to  eye, 
Who  full  himself  of  courage  kindles  courage 
In  me  too.     'Tis  a  foe  invisible 
The  which  I  fear — a  fearful  enemy, 
Which  in  the  human  heart  opposes  me, 
By  its  coward  fear  alone  made  fearful  to  me. 
Not  that,  which  full  of  life,  instinct  with  power, 
Makes  known  its  present  being,  that  is  not 
The  true,  the  perilously  formidable. 
O  no  !  it  is  the  common,  the  quite  common, 
The  thing  of  an  eternal  yesterday. 
What  ever  was,  and  ever  more  returns, 
Sterling  to  morrow,  for  to-day  'twas  sterling! 
For  of  the  wholly  common  is  man  made. 
And  custom  is  his  nurse  !     Woe  then  to  them, 
Who  lay  irreverent  hands  upon  his  old 
House  furniture,  the  dear  inheritance 
From  his  forefathers.     For  time  consecrates  j 
And  what  is  gray  with  age  becomes  religion. 
Be  in  possession,  and  thou  hast  the  right, 
And  sacred  will  the  many  guard  it  for  thee ! 

[To  the  Page  who  here  enters. 
The  Swedish  officer?— Well,  let  him  enter. 

[The  Page  exit,  Wallenstein  fixes  his  eye  in  deep  thought  on 

the  door. 

Yet  is  it  pure— as  yet !— the  crime  has  come 
Not  o'er  this  threshold  yet— so  slender  is 
The  boundary  that  divideth  life's  two  paths. 


* 

THE  PICCOLOMIN2.  5J7 


SCENE  V. 

WALLENSTEIN  and  WRANGEL. 

WALLENSTEIN.    (after  having  fixed  a  searching  look  on  him.} 
Your  name  is  Wrangel  ? 

WRANGEL. 

Gustavus  Wrangle,  General 
Of  the  Sudermanian  blues. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

It  was  a  Wrangel 

Who  injured  me  materially  at  Stralsund, 
And  by  his  brave  resistance  was  the  cause 
Of  th'  opposition  which  that  sea-port  made. 

WRANGEL. 

It  was  the  doing  of  the  element 

With  which  you  fought,  my  Lord  !  and  not  my  merit. 
The  Baltic  Neptune  did  assert  his  freedom  ; 
The  sea  and  land,  it  seemed,  were  not  to  serve 
One  and  the  same. 

WALLENSTEIN.    (makes  a  motion  for  him  to  take  a  seat,  and  seats 

himself.} 

And  where  are  your  credentials  ? 
Come  you  provided  with  full  powers,  Sir  General  ? 

WRANGEL. 
There  are  so  many  scruples  yet  to  solve 

WALLENSTEIN.    (having  read  the  credentials.) 
An  able  letter  ! — Ay — he  is  a  prudent, 
Intelligent  master,  whom  you  serve,  Sir  General ! 
The  Chancellor  writes  me,  that  he  but  fulfils 
His  late  departed  Sovereign's  own  idea 
In  helping  me  to  the  Bohemian  crown. 

WRANGEL. 

He  says  the  truth.     Our  great  King,  now  in  heaven, 

Did  ever  deem  most  highly  of  your  Grace's 

Pre-eminent  sense  and  military  genius  ; 

And  always  the  commanding  intellect, 

He  said,  should  have  command,  and  be  the  King. 


5 1 8  COLERIDGE  *S  POEMS. 

WALLENSTEIN 
Yes,  he  might  say  it  safely. — General  Wrangel, 

{taking  his  hand  affectionately, 
Come,  fair  and  open.     Trust  me,  I  was  always 
A  Swede  at  heart.     Ey  !  that  did  you  experience 
Both  in  Silesia  and  at  Nureuiburg  ; 
I  had  you  often  in  my  power,  and  let  you 
Always  slip  out  by  some  back  door  or  other. 
'Tis  this  for  which  the  court  can  ne'er  forgive  me, 
Which  drives  me  to  this  present  step  :  and  since 
Our  interests  so  run  in  one  direction, 
E'en  let  us  have  a  thorough  confidence 
Each  in  the  other. 

WRANGE.L. 
Confidence  will  come, 
Has  each  but  only  first  security. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The  Chancellor  still,  I  see,  does  not  quite  trust  me, 
And  I  confess — the  game  does  not  lie  wholly 
To  my  advantage — Without  doubt  he  thinks 
If  I  can  play  false  with  the  Emperor, 
Who  is  my  Sov'reign,  I  can  do  the  like 
With  the  enemy,  and  that  the  one,  too,  were 
Sooner  to  be  forgiven  me  than  the  other. 
Is  not  this  your  opinion  too,  Sir  General  ? 

WRANGEL. 
I  have  here  an  office  merely,  no  opinion. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The  Emperor  hath  urged  me  to  the  uttermost. 
I  can  no  longer  honorably  serve  him. 
For  my  security  in  self-defence, 
I  take  this  hard  step  which  my  conscience  blames. 

WRANGEL. 

That  I  believe.    So  far  would  no  one  go 
Who  was  not  forced  to  it.  [After  apause* 

What  may  have  impelled 
Your  princely  Highness  in  this  wise  to  act 
Toward  your  Sovereign  Lord  and  Emperor, 
Beseems  not  us  to  expound  or  criticise. 
The  Swede  is  fighting  for  his  good  old  cause, 
With  his  good  sword  and  conscience.     This  concurrence, 
This  opportunity,  is  in  our  favor, 


THE  PICCOL  OMTN1.  5 1  $ 


And  all  advantages  in  war  are  lawful. 
We  take  what  otters  without  questioning  j 
And  if  all  have  its  due  and  just  proportions 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Of  what  then  are  ye  doubting  ?     Of  my  will  ? 
Or  of  my  power  ?     I  pledged  me  to  the  Chancellor, 
Would  he  trust  me  with  sixteen  thousand  men, 
That  I  would  instantly  go  over  to  them 
With  eighteen  thousand  of  the  Emperor's  troops. 

WRANGEL. 

Your  Grace  is  known  to  be  a  mighty  war-chief, 
To  be  a  second  Attila  and  Pyrrhus. 
'Tis  talked  of  still  with  fresh  astonishment, 
How  some  years  past,  beyond  all  human  faith, 
You  called  an  army  forth,  like  a  creation  : 

But  yet 

WALLENSTEIN. 
But  yet  ? 

WRANGEL. 

But  still  the  Chancellor  thinks, 
It  might  yet  be  an  easier  thing  from  nothing 
To  call  forth  sixty-thousand  men  of  battle, 
Than  to  persuade  one  sixtieth  part  of  them — 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Who.t  now  i    Out  with  it,  friend  ! 

WRANGEL. 

To  break  their  oaths. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

And  he  thinks  so  ?    He  judges  like  a  Swede, 
And  like  a  Protestant.     You  Lutherans 
Fight  for  your  Bible.     You  are  int'rested 
About  the  cause  ;  and  with  your  hearts  you  follow 
Your  banners. — Among  you,  whoe'er  deserts 
To  the  enemy,  hath  broken  covenant 
With  two  Lords  at  one  time. — We've  no  such  fancies. 

WRANGEL. 

Great  God  in  Heaven  !     Have  then  the  people  here 
No  house  and  home,  no  fire-side,  no  altar? 

WALLEXSTEIN. 
I  will  explain  that  to  you,  how  it  stands— 


5*3  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

The  Austrian  has  a  country,  ay,  and  loves  it, 
And  has  good  cause  to  love  it — but  this  army 
That  calls  itself  th'  Imperial,  this  that  houses 
Here  in  Bohemia,  this  has  none — no  country  ; 
This  is  an  outcast  of  all  foreign  lands, 
Unclaimed  by  town  or  tribe,  to  whom  belongs 
Nothing,  except  the  universal  sun. 

WRANGEL. 

But  then  the  nobles  and  the  officers  ? 
Such  a  desertion,  such  a  felony, 
It  is  without  example,  my  Lord  Duke, 
In  the  world's  history. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

They  all  are  mine — 

Mine  unconditionally — mine  on  all  terms. 
Not  me,  your  own  eyes  you  may  trust. 

[He  gives  Mm  the  paper  containing  the  ivritten  oath.  Wr an- 
gel reads  it  through,  and  having  read  it,  lays  it  on  tht 
table  remaining  silent. 

So  then  ? 
Now  comprehend  you  ? 

WRANGEL. 

Comprehend,  who  can? 

My  Lord  Duke  !  I  will  let  the  mask  drop — yes  I 
I've  full  powers  for  a  final  settlement, 
The  Rhinegrave  stands  but  four  days'  march  from  here 
With  fifteen  thousand  men,  and  only  waits 
For  orders  to  proceed  arid  join  your  army. 
These  orders  1  give  out,  immediately 
We're  compromised. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What  asks  the  Chancellor  ? 
WRANGEL.  (considerately.) 

Twelve  regiments,  every  man  a  Swede — my  head 
The  warranty — and  all  might  prove  at  last 
Only  false  play — 

WALLENSTEIN.  (starting.) 
Sir  Swede  1 

WBANGBL.  (calmly  proceeding .) 

Am  therefore  forced 
T'  insist  thereon,  that  he  do  formally, 


THE  PICCOLOM-WT.  521 

Irrevocably  break  with  th'  Emperor, 

Else  not  a  Swede  is  trusted  to  Duke  Friedland. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
Come,  brief  and  open  !  what  is  the  demand  ? 

WRANGEL. 

That  he  forthwith  disarm  the  Spanish  reg'ments 
Attached  to  th'  Emperor,  that  he  seize  Prague, 
And  to  the  Swedes  give  up  that  city,  with 
The  strong  pass  Egra. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

That  is  much  indeed  ! 

Prague  !— Egra's  granted— But— but  Prague !— 'Twon't  do, 
I  give  you  every  security 

Which  you  may  ask  of  me  in  common  reason — 
But  Prague — Bohemia — these,  Sir  General, 
I  can  myself  protect. 

WRANGEL. 

We  doubt  it  not. 

But  'tis  not  the  protection  that  is  now 
Our  sole  concern.     We  want  security, 
That  we  shall  not  expend  our  men  and  money 
All  to  no  purpose. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
'Tis  but  reasonable. 

WRANGEL. 

And  till  we  are  indemnified,  so  long 
Stays  Prague  in  pledge. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Then  trust  you  us  so  little? 

WRANGEL.  (rising.} 

The  Swede,  if  he  would  treat  well  with  the  German, 
Must  keep  a  sharp  look-out.     We  have  been  called 
Over  the  Baltic,  we  have  saved  the  empire 
From  ruin — with  our  best  blood  have  we  sealed 
The  liberty  of  faith,  and  gospel  truth. 
But  now  already  is  the  benefaction 

No  longer  felt,  the  load  alone  is  felt 

Ye  look  askance  with  evil  eye  upon  us, 
As  foreigners,  intruders  in  the  empire, 


522  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

And  would  fain  send  us,  with  some  paltry  sum 
Of  money,  home  again  to  our  old  forests. 
No,  no  !  my  Lord  Duke  !  no  ! — it  never  was 
For  Judas'  pay,  for  chinking  gold  and  silver, 
That  we  did  leave  our  King  by  the  Great  Stone.* 
No,  not  for  gold  and  silver  have  there  bled 
So  many  of  our  Swedish  nobles — neither 
Will  we,  with  empty  laurels  for  our  payment, 
Hoist  sail  for  our  own  country.     Citizens 
Will  we  remain  upon  the  soil,  the  which 
Our  monarch  conquered  for  himself,  and  died. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Help  to  keep  down  the  common  enemy, 
And  the  fair  border  land  must  needs  be  yours. 

WRANGEL. 

But  when  the  common  enemy  lies  vanquished, 
Who  knits  together  our  new  friendship  then  ! 
We  know,  Duke  Friedland  !  though  perhaps  the  Swede 
Ought  not  t'  have  known  it,  that  you  carry  on 
Secret  negotiations  with  the  Saxons. 
Who  is  our  warranty,  that  we  are  not 
The  sacrifices  in  those  articles 
Which  'tis  thought  needful  to  conceal  from  us  ? 

WALLENSTEIN.  (rises.) 

Think  you  of  something  better,  Gustave  Wrangel  t 
Of  Prague  no  more. 

WRANGEL. 

Here  my  commission  ends. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Surrender  up  to  you  my  capital ! 
Far  livelier  would  I  face  about,  and  step 
Back  to  iny  Emperor. 

WRANGEL. 

If  time  yet  permits— 

WALLENSTEIN. 
That  lies  with  me,  even  now,  at  any  hour. 

WRANGEL. 
Some  days  ago,  perhaps.    To-day,  no  longer  ; 


*  A  great  stone  near  Lutzen,  since  called  the  Swede's  Stone,  the  body  of  their  great 
if  Caving  been  found  at  the  foot  of  it,  after  the  battle  in  whicli  he  lost  his  life. 


ttlnj-  *a 


THE  PICCOLOMIHI.  593 


No  longer  since  Sesina's  been  a  prisoner. 

[  Wallenstein  is  struck,  and  silenced. 
My  Lord  Duke,  hear  me — We  believe  that  you 
At  present  do  mean  honorably  by  us. 
Since  yesterday  we're  sure  of  that — and  now 
This  paper  warrants  for  the  troops,  there's  nothing 
Stands  in  the  way  of  our  full  confidence. 
Prague  shall  not  part  us.     Hear  !     The  Chancellor 
Contents  himself  with  Albstadt ;  to  your  Grace 
lie  gives  up  Ratschin  and  the  narrow  side, 
But  Egra,  above  all,  must  open  to  us, 
Ere  we  can  think  of  any  junction. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

You, 

You  therefore  must  I  trust,  and  you  not  me  ? 
I  will  consider  of  your  proposition. 

WRANGEL. 

I  mus',  entreat  that  your  consideration 
Occupy  not  too  long  a  time.     Already 
Has  this  negotiation,  my  Lord  Duke  ! 
Crept  on  into  the  second  year.     If  nothing 
Is  settled  this  time,  will  the  Chancellor 
Consider  it  as  broken  off  for  ever. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Ye  press  me  hard.     A  measure,  such  as  this, 
Ought  to  be  thought  of. 

WRANGEL. 

Ay  !   but  think  of  this  too, 
That  sudden  action  only  can  procure  it 
Success— think  first  of  this,  your  Highness.        [Exit  Wrangel. 

SCENE  VI. 

WALLENSTEIN,  TERTSKY  and  ILLO  (re-enter). 

ILLO. 
Is't  all  right  ? 

TERTSKY. 
Are  you  compromised  ? 

ILLO. 

This  Swede 
Went  smiling  from  you.    Yes  !  you're  compromised. 


5*4  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

As  yet  is  nothing  settled  :  and  (well  weighed) 
I  feel  myself  inclined  to  leave  it  so. 

TERTSKY. 
How  ?    What  is  that  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Come  on  me  what  will  come, 
The  doing  evil  to  avoid  an  evil 
Cannot  be  good ! 

TERTSKY. 
Nay,  but  bethink  you,  Duke  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

To  live  upon  the  mercy  of  these  Swedes ! 
Of  these  proud-hearted  Swedes  !     I  could  not  bear  it. 

ILLO. 

Goest  thou  as  fugitive,  as  mendicant  ? 
Bring'st  thou  not  more  to  them  than  thou  receiv'st  ? 


SCENE  VII. 

To  these  enter  the  COUNTESS  TERTSKY. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Who  sent  for  you  ?    There  is  no  business  here 
For  women. 

COUNTESS. 
I  am  come  to  bid  you  joy. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
Use  thy  authority,  Tertsky,  bid  her  go. 

COUNTESS. 
Come  I  perhaps  too  early  ?    I  hope  not. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Set  not  this  tongue  upon  me,  I  entreat  you, 
You  know  it  is  the  weapon  that  destroys  ine. 
I  am  routed,  if  a  woman  but  attack  me. 
I  cannot  traffic  in  the  trade  of  words 
With  that  unreasoning  sex. 


FHE  PTCCOLOMINT.  525 


COUNTESS. 

I  had  already 
Given  the  Bohemians  a  king. 

WALLENSTEIN.  (sarcastically.) 

They  have  one, 
In  consequence,  no  doubt. 

COUNTESS,  (to  the  others.} 

Ha !  what  new  scruple  ? 

TERTSKY. 
The  Duke  will  not. 

COUNTESS. 
He  will  not  what  he  must ! 

ILLO- 

It  lies  with  you  now.     Try.     For  I  am  silenced, 
When  folks  begin  to  talk  to  me  of  conscience, 
And  of  fidelity. 

COUNTESS. 

How  ?  then,  when  all 

Lay  in  the  far-off  distance,  when  the  road 
Stretched  out  before  thine  eyes  interminably, 
Then  hadst  thou  courage  and  resolve ;  and  now 
Now  that  the  dream  is  being  realized, 
The  purpose  ripe,  the  issue  ascertained, 
Dost  thou  begin  to  play  the  dastard  now  ? 
Planned  merely,  'tis  a  common  felony  ; 
Accomplished,  an  immortal  undertaking; 
And  with  success  comes  pardon  hand  in  hand  j 
For  all  event  is  God's  arbitrament. 

SERVANT,  (enters.) 
The  Colonel  Piccolomini. 

COUNTESS,  (hastily.) 
— Must  wait. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
I  cannot  see  him  now.     Another  time. 

SERVANT. 

But  for  two  minutes  he  entreats  an  audienct  j 
Of  the  most  urgent  nature  is  his  business. 


5*6 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


WALLENSTEIN. 
Who  knows  what  he  may  bring  us  ?    I  will  hear  him. 

COUNTESS,  (laughs.) 
Urgent  for  him,  no  doubt ;  but  thou  niay'st  wait. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
What  is  it  ? 

COUNTESS. 

Thou  shalt  be  informed  hereafter. 
First  let  the  Swede  and  thee  be  compromised.  [Exit  servant 

WALLENSTEIN. 

If  there  were  yet  a  choice  ;  if  yet  some  milder 
Way  of  escape  were  possible — I  still 
Will  choose  it,  and  avoid  the  last  extreme. 

COUNTESS. 

Desirest  thou  nothing  further  ?    Such  a  way 
Lies  still  before  thee.     Send  this  Wrangel  off. 
Forget  thou  thy  old  hopes,  cast  far  away 
All  thy  past  life  ;  determine  to  commence 
A  new  one.     Virtue  hath  her  heroes  too, 
As  well  as  Fame  and  Fortune. — To  Vienna — 
Hence — to  the  Emperor — kneel  before  the  throne ; 
Take  a  full  coffer  with  thee — say  aloud, 
Thou  didst  but  wish  to  prove  thy  fealty  ; 
Thy  whole  intention  but  to  dupe  the  Swede. 

ILLO. 

For  that,  too,  'tis  too  late.    They  know  too  much. 
He  would  but  bear  his  own  head  to  the  block. 

COUNTESS. 

I  fear  that  not.     They  have  not  evidence 
To  attaint  him  legally,  and  they  avoid 
The  avowal  of  an  arbitrary  power. 
They'll  let  the  Duke  resign  without  disturbance. 
I  see  how  all  will  end.     The  king  of  Hungary 
Makes  his  appearance,  and  'twill  of  itself 
Be  understood,  that  then  the  Duke  retires. 
There  will  not  want  a  formal  declaration. 
The  young  King  will  administer  the  oath 
To  the  whole  army ;  and  so  all  returns 
To  the  old  position.     On  some  morrow  morning 
The  Duke  departs ;  and  now  'tis  stir  and  bustle 


THE  PICCOLOMINL  525 


Within  his  castles.     He  will  hunt,  and  build, 

Superintend  his  horses'  pedigrees, 

Creates  himself  a  court,  gives  golden  keys, 

.\nd  introduoeth  strictest  ceremony 

In  fine  proportions,  and  nice  etiquette  ; 

Keeps  open  table  with  high  cheer  ;  in  brief 

Commenceth  mighty  king — in  miniature. 

And  while  he  prudently  demeans  himself, 

And  gives  himself  no  actual  importance, 

He  will  be  let  appear  whate'er  he  likes  ; 

And  who  dares  doubt,  the  Friedland  will  appear 

A  mighty  Prince  to  his  last  dying  hour  ? 

Well  now,  what  then  ?    Duke  Friedland  is  as  others, 

A  fire-new  Noble,  whom  the  war  hath  raised 

To  price  and  currency,  a  Jonah's  gourd, 

An  over-night  creation  of  court-favor, 

Which  with  an  undistinguishable  ease 

Makes  Baron  or  makes  Prince. 

WALLENSTELN.  (in  extreme  agitation.) 

Take  her  away. 
Let  in  the  young  Count  Piccolomini. 

COUNTESS. 

Art  thou  in  earnest  ?    I  intreat  thee  !     Canst  thou 
Consent  to  bear  thyself  to  thy  own  grave, 
So  ignominiously  to  be  dried  up  ? 
Thy  life,  that  arrogated  such  a  height, 
To  end  in  such  a  nothing !     To  be  nothing, 
When  one  was  always  nothing,  is  an  evil 
That  asks  no  stretch  of  patience,  a  light  evil ; 
But  to  become  a  nothing,  having  been — 

WA^LENSTEIN.  (starts  up  in  violent  agitation.} 
Show  me  a  way  out  of  this  stifling  crowd, 
Ye  powers  of  aidance  ?     Show  me  such  a  way 
As  /  am  capable  of  going. — I 
Am  no  tongue-hero,  no  fine  virtue-prattler  ; 
I  cannot  warm  by  thinking  !  cannot  say 
To  the  good  luck  that  turns  her  back  upon  me, 
Magnanimously  :  '  Go  !  I  need  thee  not.' 
Cease  I  to  work,  I  am  annihilated. 
Dangers  nor  sacrifices  will  I  shun, 
if  so  I  may  avoid  the  last  extreme  ; 
But  ere  I  sink  down  into  nothingness, 
Leave  off  so  little,  who  begun  so  great, 
Ere  that  the  world  confuses  me  with  those 


525  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

Poor  wretches,  whom  a  day  creates  and  crumbles, 
This  age  and  after-ages  speak  my  name 
With  hate  arid  dread ;  and  Friedland  be  redemption 
For  each  accursed  deed  ! 

COUNTESS. 

What  is  there  here,  then, 
So  against  nature  ?    Help  me  to  perceive  it ! 
O  let  not  Superstition's  nightly  goblins 
Subdue  thy  clear  bright  spirit !     Art  thou  bid 
To  murder  ? — with  abhorred,  accursed  poniard, 
To  violate  the  breasts  that  nourished  thee  ? 
That  were  arainst  our  nature,  that  might  aptly 
Make  thy  flesh  shudder,  and  thy  whole  heart  sicken ; 
Yet  not  a  few,  and  for  a  meaner  object, 
Have  ventured  even  this,  ay,  and  performed  it. 
What  is  there  in  thy  case  so  black  and  monstrous  ? 
Thou  art  accused  of  treason — whether  with 
Or  without  justice,  is  not  now  the  question — 
Thou'rt  lost  if  thou  dost  not  avail  thee  quickly 
Of  the  power  which  thou  possesses! . — Friedland  !  Duke  / 
Tell  me,  where  lives  that  thing  so  meek  and  tame, 
That  doth  not  all  his  living  faculties 
Put  forth  in  preservation  of  his  life  ? 
What  deed  so  daring,  which  necessity 
And  desperation  will  not  sanctify  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Once  was  this  Ferdinand  so  gracious  to  me  : 
He  loved  me  ;  he  esteemed  me  ;  I  was  placed 
The  nearest  to  his  heart.     Full  many  a  time 
We,  like  familiar  friends,  both  at  one  table, 
Have  banquetted  together.     He  and  I — 
And  the  young  kings  themselves  held  me  the  basin    • 
Wherewith  to  wash  me — and  is't  come  to  this  ? 

COUNTESS. 

So  faithfully  preserv'st  thou  each  small  favor, 
And  hadst  no  memory  for  contu  melies  ? 
Must  I  remind  thee  how  at  Regenspurg 
This  man  repaid  thy  faithful  services  ? 
All  ranks  and  all  conditions  in  the  empire 

Thou  hast  wronged,  to  make  him  great, — hadst  loaded  on  thet, 
On  thee,  the  hate,  the  curse  of  the  whole  world, 
No  friend  existed  for  thee  in  all  Germany, 
And  why  r  because  thou  hadst  existed  only 
For  th'  Emperor.     To  th'  Emperor  alone 


THE  PICCOLOMINI.  5  ±9 

Clung  Friedlarid  in  that  storm  which  gathered  round  him. 

At  Regenspurg  in  the  Diet  —  and  he  dropped  thee  ! 

He  let  thee  fall  !     He  let  thee  fall  a  victim 

To  the  Bavarian,  to  that  insolent  ! 

Deposed,  stript  bare  of  all  thy  dignity 

And  power,  amid  the  taunting  of  thy  foes, 

Thou  wert  let  drop  into  obscurity.  — 

Say  not,  the  restoration  of  thy  honor 

Has  made  atonement  for  that  first  injustice. 

No  honest  good-  will  was  it  that  replaced  thee, 

The  law  of  hard  necessity  replaced  thee, 

Which  they  had  fain  opposed,  but  that  they  could  not. 


Not  to  their  good  wishes,  that  is  certainv 
Nor  yet  to  his  affection  I'm  indebted 
For  this  high  office  ;  and  if  I  abuse  it, 
I  shall  therein  abuse  no  confidence, 

COUNTESS. 

Affection  !  confidence  !—  They  needed  thee. 
Necessity,  impetuous  remonstrant  ! 
Who  not  with  empty  names,  or  shows  of  proxy, 
Is  served,  who'll  have  the  thing  and  not  the  symbol, 
Ever  seeks  out  the  greatest  and  the  best, 
And  at  the  rudder  places  him,  e'en  though 
She  had  been  forced  to  take  him  from  the  rabble, 
She,  this  Necessity,  it  was  that  placed  thee 
In  this  high  office,  it  was  she  that  gave  thee 
Thy  letters  patent  of  inauguration. 
For,  to  the  uttermost  moment  that  they  can, 
This  race  still  help  themselves  at  cheapest  rate 
With  slavish  souls,  with  puppets  !     At  the  approach 
Of  extreme  peril,  when  a  hollow  image 
Is  found  a  hollow  image  and  no  more, 
Then  falls  the  power  into  the  mighty  hands 
Of  nature,  of  the  spirit  giant-born, 
Who  listens  only  to  himself,  knows  nothing 
Of  stipulation,  duties,  reverences  ; 
And,  like  th'  emancipated  force  of  fire, 
Un  mastered  scorches,  ere  it  reaches  them, 
Their  fine-spun  webs,  their  artificial  policy. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

'Tis  true  !  they  sa,w  me  always  as  I  am  —  » 

Always  !     I  did  riot  cheat  them  in  the  bargain. 

34 


53°  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

I  never  held  it  worth  my  pains  to  hide 
The  bold,  all-grasping  habit  of  my  soul. 

COUNTESS. 

Nay,  rather — thou  hast  ever  shown  thyself 

A  formidable  man,  without  restraint ; 

Hast  exercised  the  full  prerogatives 

Of  thy  impetuous  nature,  which  had  been 

Once  granted  to  thee.     Therefore,  Duke,  not  thou 

Who  hast  still  remained  consistent  with  thyself, 

But  they  are  in  the  wrong,  who  fearing  thee, 

Intrusted  such  a  power  in  hands  they  feared. 

For,  by  the  laws  of  spirit,  in  the  right 

Is  every  individual  character 

That  acts  in  strict  consistence  with  itself. 

Self-contradiction  is  the  only  wrong. 

Wert  thou  another  being,  then,  when  thou 

Eight  years  ago  pursuedst  thy  march  with  fire 

And  sword,  and  desolation,  through  the  circles 

Of  Germany,  the  universal  scourge, 

Didst  mock  all  ordinances  of  the  Empire, 

The  fearful  rights  of  strength  alone  exertedst, 

Trampledst  to  earth  each  rank,  each  magistracy, 

All  to  extend  thy  Sultan's  domination  ? 

Then  was  the  time  to  break  thee  in,  to  curb 

Thy  haughty  will,  to  teach  thee  ordinance. 

But  no  !  the  Emperor  felt  no  touch  of  conscience, 

What  served  him  pleased  him,  and  without  a  murmur 

He  stamped  his  broad  seal  on  these  lawless  deeds. 

What  at  that  time  was  right,  because  thou  didst  it 

For  him,  to-day  is  all  at  once  become 

Opprobrious,  foul,  because  it  is  directed 

Against  him. — O  most  flimsy  superstition  I 

WALLENSTEIN.  (rising.) 

I  never  saw  it  in  this  light  before. 

'Tis  even  so.     The  Emperor  perpetrated 

Deeds  through  my  arm,  deeds  most  unorderly. 

And  even  this  prince's  mantle,  which  I  wear, 

I  owe  to  what  were  services  to  him, 

But  most  high  misdemeanors  'gainst  the  Empire. 

COUNTESS. 

Then  betwixt  thee  and  him  (confess  it,  Friedland  !) 
The  point  can  be  no  more  of  right  and  duty, 
Only  of  power  and  th'  opportunity. 


THE  PICCOLOMINL  531 


That  opportunity,  lo  !  it  comes  yonder, 

Approaching  with  swift  steeds  ;  then  with  a  swing 

Throw  thyself  up  into  the  chariot-seat, 

Seize  with  firm  hand  the  reins,  ere  thy  opponent 

Anticipate  thee,  and  himself  make  conquest 

Of  the  now  empty  seat.     The  moment  comes, 

It  is  already  here,  when  thou  must  write 

The  absolute  total  of  thy  life's  vast  sum . 

The  constellations  stand  victorious  o'er  thee, 

The  planets  shoot  good  fortune  in  fair  junctions, 

And  tell  thee,  '  Now's  the  time  !  '     The  starry  courses 

Hast  thou  thy  life  long  measured  to  no  purpose  ? 

The  quadrant  and  the  circle,  were  they  playthings  ? 

[pointing  to  the  different  objects  in  the  room. 
The  zodiacs,  the  rolling  orbs  of  heaven, 
Hast  pictured  on  these  walls,  and  all  around  thee, 
In  dumb,  foreboding  symbols  hast  thou  placed 
These  seven  presiding  lords  of  destiny — 
For  toys  ?     Is  all  this  preparation  nothing  ? 
Is  there  no  marrow  in  this  hollow  art, 
That  even  to  thyself  it  doth  avail 
Nothing,  and  has  no  influence  over  thee 

In  the  great  moment  of  decision  ? 

WALLEXSTEIX.  (during  this  last  speech  walks  up  and  down  with 

inward    struggles,   laboring  with  passions ;    stops  suddenly, 

stands  still,  then  interrupting  the  Countess.) 
Send  Wrangel  to  me — I  will  instantly 
Despatch  three  couriers 

ILLO.  (hurrying  out.) 

God  in  heaven  be  praised ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 
It  is  his  evil  genius  and  mine. 
Our  evil  genius  !    It  chastises  him 
Through  me,  the  instrument  of  his  ambition  ; 
And  I  expect  no  less  than  that  revenge 
E'en  now  is  whetting  for  my  breast  the  poniard. 
Who  sows  the  serpent's  teeth,  let  him  not  hope 
To  reap  a  joyous  harvest.     Every  crime 
Has,  in  the  moment  of  its  preparation, 
Its  own  avenging  angel — dark  misgiving, 
An  ominous  sinking  at  the  inmost  heart. 
He  can  no  longer  trust  me. — Then  no  longer 
Can  I  retreat— so  come  that  which  must  come, 
Still  destiny  preserves  its  due  relations  ; 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


The  heart  within  us  is  its  absolute 

Vicegerent.  [to  Tertsky. 

Go,  conduct  your  Gustave  Wrangel 
To  my  state-cabinet. — Myself  will  speak  to 
The  couriers. — And  despatch  immediately 
A  servant  for  Octavio  Piccolo  mini. 

[to  the  Countess,  who  cannot  conceal  her  triumph. 
No  exultation  ! — women,  triumph  not ! 
For  jealous  are  the  powers  of  destiny 
Joy  premature,  and  shouts  ere  victory, 
Encroach  upon  their  rights  and  privileges. 
We  sow  the  seed,  and  they  the  growth  determine. 

[While  he  is  making  his  exit  the  curtain  drops. 


ACT  V, 

Scene  as  in  the  preceding  Act. 
SCENE    I. 


WALLENSTEIN,  OCTAVIO  PICCOLOMINI. 

WALLENSTEIN.  (coming  forward  in  conversation.) 
He  sends  me  word  from  Linz,  that  he  lies  sick  ; 
But  I  have  sure  intelligence,  that  he 
Secretes  himself  at  Frauenberg  with  Galas. 
Secure  them  both,  and  send  them  to  me  hither. 
Remember,  thou  tak'st  on  thee  the  command 
Of  those  same  Spanish  regiments, — constantly 
Make  preparation,  and  be  never  ready  ; 
And  if  they  ui  ge  thee  to  draw  out  against  me, 
Still  answer  yes,  and  stand  as  thou  wert  fettered. 
1  know,  that  it  is  doing  thee  a  service 
To  keep  thee  out  of  action  in  this  business. 
Thou  lov'st  to  linger  on  in  fair  appearances  ; 
Steps  of  extremity  are  not  thy  province, 
Therefore  have  I  sought  out  this  part  for  thee 
Thou  wilt  this  time  be  of  most  service  to  me 
By  thy  inertness.     The  mean  time,  if  fortune 
Declare  itself  on  my  side,  thou  wilt  know 
What  is  to  do. 


THE  PICCOLOMINL  533 


Enter  MAX.  PICCOLOMINI. 
Now  go.  Octavio. 
This  night  must  thou  be  off,  take  my  own  horses : 
Him  here  I  keep  with  me — make  short  farewell — 
Trust  me.     I  think  we  all  shall  meet  again 
In  joy  and  thriving  fortunes. 

OCTAVIO.    (to  Ms  son.) 

I  shall  see  you 
Yet  ere  I  go. 

SCENE  II. 

WALLENSTEIN,  MAX.  PICCOLOMIWI. 

MAX.    (advances  to  him.) 
My  General ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 
That  am  I  no  longer,  if 
Thou  styl'st  thyself  the  Emperor's  officer. 

MAX. 
Then  thou  wilt  leave  the  army,  General  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 
I  have  renounced  the  service  of  the  Emperor. 

MAX. 
And  thou  wilt  leave  the  army  ? 

WALLEISTSTEIN. 

Rather  hope  I 

To  bind  it  nearer  still  and  faster  to  me.  [He  seats  himself 

Yes,  Max.,  I  have  delayed  to  open  it  to  tbee, 
Even  till  the  hour  of  acting  'gins  to  strike. 
Youth's  fortunate  feeling  doth  seize  easily 
The  absolute  right,  yea,  and  a  joy  it  is 
To  exercise  the  single  apprehension 
Where  the  sums  square  in  proof  ; 
But  where  it  happens,  that  of  two  sure  evils 
One  must  be  taken,  where  the  heart  not  wholly 
Brings  itself  back  from  out  the  strife  of  duties, 
There  'tis  a  blessing  to  have  no  election, 
And  blank  necessity  is  grace  and  favor. — 
This  is  now  present :  do  not  look  behind  thee — 
It  can  no  more  avail  thee.     Look  thou  forwards  1 


534  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

Think  not !  judge  not !  prepare  thyself  to  act ! 

The  Court — it  hath  determined  on  my  ruin, 

Therefore  I  will  to  be  beforehand  with  them. 

We'll  join  the  Swedes — right  gallant  fellows  are  they, 

And  our  good  friends. 

[He  stops  himself,  expecting  Piccolomini' s  CM 

I  have  ta'en  thee  by  surprise.     Answer  me  not. 

I  grant  thee  time  to  recollect  thyself. 

[He  rises,  and  retires  to  the  back  of  the  stage.    Max.  remaii 
for  a  long  time  motionless,  in  a  trance  of  excessive  anguis) 
At  his  first  motion  Wallenstein  returns,  and  places  himselj 
before  him. 

MAX. 

My  General,  this  day  thou  makest  me 

Of  age  to  speak  in  my  own  right  and  person, 

For  till  this  day  I  have  been  spared  the  trouble 

To  find  out  my  own  road.     Thee  have  I  followed 

With  most  implicit,  unconditional  faith, 

Sure  of  the  right  path  if  I  followed  thee. 

To-day,  for  me  first  time,  dost  thou  refer 

Me  to  myself,  and  forcest  me  to  make 

Election  between  thee  and  my  own  heart. 

WALLEUSTEIN. 

Soft  cradled  thee  thy  fortune  till  to-day : 
Thy  duties  thou  couldst  exercise  in  sport, 
Indulge  all  lovely  instincts,  act  forever 
With  undivided  heart.     It  can  remain 
No  longer  thus.     Like  enemies,  the  roads 
Start  from  each  other.     Duties  strive  with  duties. 
Thou  must  needs  choose  thy  party  in  the  war^ 
Which  is  now  kindling  'twixt  thy  friend  and  Kim 
Who  is  thy  Emperor. 

MAX. 

War  !  is  that  the  name  ? 
War  is  as  frightful  as  heaven's  pestilence, 
Yet  it  is  good,  is  it  heaven's  will  as  that  is. 
Is  that  a  good  war,  which  against  the  Emperor 
Thou  wagest  with  the  Emperor's  own  army  ? 
O  God  of  Heaven  1  what  a  change  is  this. 
Beseems  it  me  to  offer  such  persuasion 
T'o  thee,  who,  like  the  fixed  star  of  the  pole, 
Wert  all  I  gazed  at  on  life's  trackless  ocean  ? 
O  !  what  a  rent  thou  makest  in  my  heart  I 
The  ingrained  instinct  of  old  reverence, 


THE  PICCOLOMINI.  535 

The  holy  habit  of  obediency, 

Must  i  pluck  life  asunder  from  thy  name  ? 

Nay,  do  not  turn  thy  countenance  upon  me — 

It  always  was  a  god  looking  at  me  ! 

Duke  Wallenstein,  its  power  is  not  departed  : 

The  senses  still  are  in  thy  bonds  ;  although, 

Bleeding,  the  soul  hath  freed  itself. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Max.  hear  me. 
MAX. 

O  !  do  it.  not,  I  pray  thee,  do  it  not ! 
There  is  a  pure  and  noble  soul  within  thee, 
Knows  not  of  this  unblest,  unlucky  doing. 
Thy  will  is  chaste,  it  is  thy  fancy  only 
Which  hath  polluted  thee — and  innocence, 
It  will  not  let  itself  be  driven  away 
From  that  world-awing  aspect.     Thou  wilt  not, 
Thou  canst  not  end  in  this.     It  would  reduce 
All  human  creatures  to  disloyalty 
Against  the  nobleness  of  their  own  nature. 
'Twill  justify  the  vulgar  misbelief, 
Which  holdeth  nothing  noble  in  free  will, 
And  trusts  itself  to  impotence  alone, 
Made  powerful  only  in  an  unknown  power. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The  world  will  judge  me  sternly  ;  I  expect  it. 
Already  have  I  said  to  my  own  self 
All  thou  canst  say  to  me.     Who  but  avoids 
Th'  extreme — can  he  by  going  round  avoid  it  ? 
But  here  there  is  no  choice.     Yes — I  must  use 
Or  suffer  violence — so  stands  the  case, 
There  remains  nothing  possible  but  that. 

MAX. 

O  that  is  never  possible  for  thee  ! 
'Tis  the  last  desperate  resource  of  those 
Cheap  souls,  to  whom  their  honor,  their-good  name, 
Is  their  poor  saving,  their  last  worthless  keep, 
Which  having  staked  and  lost,  they  stake  themselves 
In  the  mad  rage  of  gaming.     Thou  art  rich, 
And  glorious  :  with  an  unpolluted  heart 
Thou  canst  make  conquest  of  whate'er  seems  highest ! 
But  he,  who  once  hath  acted  infamy, 
Does  nothing  more  in  this  world. 


COLERIDGE  'S  POEMS. 


WALLENSTEIN.  (grasps  his  hand.) 

Calmly,  Max. 

Much  that  is  great  and  excellent  will  we 
Perform  together  yet.     And  if  we  only 
Stand  on  the  height  with  dignity,  'tis  soon 
Forgotten,  Max.,  by  what  road  we  ascended. 
Believe  me,  many  a  crown  shines  spotless  now> 
That  yet  was  deeply  sullied  in  the  winning. 
To  the  evil  spirit  doth  the  earth  belong, 
Not  to  the  good.     All  that  the  powers  divine 
Send  from  above,  are  universal  blessings  : 
Their  light  rejoices  us,  their  air  refreshes, 
But  never  yet  was  man  enriched  by  them  : 
In  their  eternal  realm  no  property 
Is  to  be  struggled  for  —  all  there  is  general. 
The  jewel,  the  all-valued  gold  we  win 
From  the  deceiving  powers,  depraved  in  nature, 
That  dwell  beneath  the  day  and  blessed  sunlight. 
Not  without  sacrifices  are  they  rendered 
Propitious,  and  there  lives  no  soul  on  earth 
That  e'er  retired  unsullied  from  their  service. 

MAX. 

Whate'er  is  human,  to  the  human  being 
Do  I  allow  —  and  to  the  vehement 
And  striving  spirit  readily  I  pardon 
Th'  excess  of  action  ;  but  to  thee,  my  General  ! 
Above  all  others  make  I  large  concession, 
For  thou  must  move  a  world,  and  be  the  master  — 
He  kills  thee,  who  condemns  thee  to  inaction. 
So  be  it  then  !  maintain  thee  in  thy  post 
By  violence.     Resist  the  Emperor, 
And  if  it  must  be,  force  with  force  repel  : 
I  will  not  praise  it,  yet  I  can  forgive  it. 
But  not  —  not  to  the  traitor  —  yes  !  —  the  word 
Is  spoken  out  — 

Not  to  the  traitor  can  I  yield  a  pardon. 
That  is  no  mere  excess  !  that  is  no  error 
Of  human  nature—  that  is  wholly  different, 
O  that  is  black,  black  as  the  pit  of  hell  ! 

[  Wallenstein  betrays  a  sudden  agitai 
Thou  canst  not  hear  it  named,  and  wilt  thou  do  it  ? 

0  turn  back  to  thy  duty.     That  thou  canst 

1  hold  it  certain.     Send  me  to  Vienna. 

I'll  make  thy  peace  for  thee  with  th'  Emperor. 
He  knows  tr^krt.     But  I  do  know  thee.    He 


THE  PIC  COLO  MINI.  537 


Shall  see  thee,  Duke  !  with  my  unclouded  eye, 
And  I  bring  back  his  confidence  to  thee. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
It  is  too  late.    Thou  knowest  not  what  has  happened. 

MAX. 

Were  it  too  late,  and  were  it  gone  so  far, 
That  a  crime  only  could  prevent  thy  fall, 
Then — fall !  fall  honorably,  even  as  thou  stood'st. 
Lose  the  command.     Go  from  the  stage  of  war. 
Thou  canst  with  splendor  do  it — do  it  too 
With  innocence.     Thou  hast  lived  much  for  others, 
At  length  live  thou  for  thine  own  self.     I  follow  thee. 
My  destiny  I  never  part  from  thine. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

It  is  too  late  I     Even  now,  while  thou  art  losing 
Thy  words,  one  after  the  other  are  the  mile-stones 
Left  fast  behind  by  my  post  couriers, 
Who  bear  the  order  on  to  Prague  and  Egra. 

[Max.  stands  as  convulsed,  with  a  gesture  and  countenance 

expressing  the  most  intense  anguish. 
Yield  thyself  to  it.     We  act  as  we  are  forced. 
/  cannot  give  assent  to  my  own  shame 
And  ruin.     Thou— no— thou  canst  not  forsake  me  ! 
So  let  us  do,  what  must  be  done,  with  dignity, 
With  a  firm  step.     What  am  I  doing  worse 
Than  did  famed  Csesar  at  the  Rubicon, 
When  he  the  legions  led  against  his  country, 
The  which  his  country  had  delivered  to  him  ? 
Had  he  thrown  down  the  sword  he  had  been  lost, 
As  I  were,  if  I  but  disarmed  myself. 
I  trace  out  something  in  me  of  his  spirit. 
Give  me  his  luck,  that  other  thing  Til  bear. 

[Max.  quits  him  abruptly.  Wallenstein,  startled  and  over- 
powered, continues  looking  after  him,  and  is  still  in  this 
posture  when  Tertsky  enters. 

SCENE  III. 

WALLENSTEIN,  TERTSKY. 

TERTSKY. 
Max.  Piccolomini  just  left  you  ? 


538  COLERIDGE 'S  POEMS. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Where  is  Wrangel  2 

TERTSKY. 
He  is  already  gone. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
In  such  a  hurry  ? 

TERTSKY. 

It  is  as  if  the  earth  had  swallowed  him. 
He  had  scarce  left  thee  when  I  went  to  seek  him. 
I  wished  some  words  with  him — but  he  was  gone. 
How,  when,  and  where,  could.no  one  tell  me.     Nay, 
I  half  believe  it  was  the  devil  himself  ; 
A  human  creature  could  not  so  at  once 
Have  vanished. 

ILLO.   (enters.) 
Is  it  true  that  thou  wilt  send  Octavio  ? 

TERTSKY. 
How,  Octavio  !     Whither  send  him  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

He  goes  to  Frauenberg,  and  will  lead  hither 
The  Spanish  and  Italian  regiments. 

ILLO. 

No!— 
Nay,  Heaven  forbid  ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 
And  why  should  Heaven  forbid  ? 

ILLO. 

Him  !  that  deceiver!     Would'st  thou  trust  to  him 
The  soldiery  ?    Him  wilt  thou  let  slip  from  thee, 
Now,  in  the  very  instant  that  decides  us— 

TERTSKY. 
Thou  wilt  not  do  this  !— No  !  I  pray  thee,  no  ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 
Ye  are  whimsical. 

ILLO. 

O  but  for  this  time,  Duke, 
Yield  to  our  warning  !     Let  him  not  depart. 


THE  P1CCOLOMINI.  539 


WALLENSTEIN. 

And  why  should  I  not  trust  him  only  this  time, 
Who  have  always  trusted  him  ?     What,  then,  has  happened 
That  I  should  lose  my  good  opinion  of  him  ? 
In  complaisance  to  your  whims,  not  my  own, 
I  must,  forsooth,  give  up  a  rooted  judgment. 
Think  not  I  am  a  woman.     Having  trusted  him 
E'en  till  to-day,  to-day  too  will  I  trust  him. 

TERTSKY. 
Must  it  be  he — he  only  ?     Send  another. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

It  must  be  he,  whom  I  myself  have  chosen  I 
He  is  well  fitted  for  the  business.  Therefore 
I  gave  it  him. 

ILLO. 

Because  he's  an  Italian — 
Therefore  is  he  well  fitted  for  the  business. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

I  know  you  love  them  not — nor  sire  nor  son — 
Because  that  I  esteem  them,  love  them — visibly 
Esteem  them,  love  them  more  than  you  and  others, 
E'en  as  they  merit.     Therefore  are  they  eye-blights, 
Thorns  in  your  footpath.     But  your  jealousies, 
In  what  affect  they  me  or  my  concerns  ? 
Are  they  the  worst  to  ?7ie,  because  you  hate  them  ? 
Love  or  hate  one  another  as  you  will, 
I  leave  to  each  man  his  own  moods  and  likings ; 
Yet  know  the  worth  of  each  of  you  to  me. 

ILLO. 

Von  Questenberg,  while  he  was  here,  was  always 
Lurking  about  with  this  Octavio. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
It  happened  with  my  knowledge  and  permission. 

ILLO. 
I  know  that  secret  messengers  came  to  him 

Prom  Galas 

WALLENSTEIN. 

That's  not  true. 

ILLO. 

O  thou  art  blind, 
With  thy  deep-seeing  eyes. 


540 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


WALLENSTEIN. 

Thou  wilt  not  shakt 

My  faith  for  me — my  faith  which  founds  itself 
On  the  profoundest  science.     If  'tis  false, 
Then  the  whole  science  of  the  stars  is  false. 
For  know,  I  have  a  pledge  from  fate  itself, 
That  he  is  the  most  faithful  of  my  friends. 

ILLO. 
East  thou  a  pledge,  that  this  pledge  is  not  false  J 

WALLENSTEIST. 

There  exist  moments  in  the  life  of  man, 

When  he  is  nearer  the  great  Soul  of  the  world 

Than  is  man's  custom,  and  possesses  freely 

The  power  of  questioning  his  destiny  : 

And  such  a  moment  'twas,  when  in  the  night 

Before  the  action  in  the  plains  of  Liitzen, 

Leaning  against  a  tree,  thoughts  crowding  thoughts, 

I  looked  out  far  upon  the  ominous  plain. 

My  whole  life,  past  and  future,  in  this  moment 

Before  my  mind's  eye  glided  in  procession, 

And  to  the  destiny  of  the  next  morning 

The  spirit,  filled  with  anxious  presentiment, 

Did  knit  the  most  removed  futurity. 

Then  said  I  also  to  myself,  '  So  many 

Dost  thou  command.     They  follow  all  thy  stars, 

And  as  on  some  great  number  set  their  all 

Upon  thy  single  head,  and  only  man 

The  vessel  of  thy  fortune.     Yet  a  day 

Will  come,  when  Destiny  shall  once  more  scatter 

All  these  in  many  a  several  direction  : 

Few  be  they  who  will  stand  out  faithful  to  thee.' 

I  yearned  to  know  which  one  was  faithfullest 

Of  all  this  camp  included.     Great  Destiny, 

Give  me  a  sign  !     And  he  shall  be  the  man, 

Who,  on  th'  approaching  morning,  comes  the  first 

To  meet  me  with  some  token  of  his  love  : 

And  thinking  this,  I  fell  into  a  slumber. 

Then  midmost  in  the  battle  was  I  led 

In  spirit.     Great  the  pressure  and  the  tumult  I 

Then  was  my  horse  killed  under  me :  I  sank  ; 

And  over  me  away,  all  unconcernedly, 

Drove  horse  and  rider — arid  thus  trod  to  pieces 

1  lay,  and  panted  like  a  dying  man. 

Then  seized  me  suddenly  a  savior  arm. 


THE  PICCOLOMINL  541 


It  was  Octavio's — I  awoke  at  once. 

'Twas  broad  day,  and  Octavio  stood  before  me. 

'  My  brother, '-said  he,  '  do  not  ride  to-day 

The  dapple,  as  you're  wont ;  but  mount  the  horse 

Which  I  have  chosen  for  thee.     Do  it  brother ! 

In  love  to  me.     A  strong  dream  warned  ine  so.' 

It  was  the  swiftness  of  this  horse  that  snatched  me 

From  the  hot  pursuit  of  Bannier's  dragoons. 

My  cousin  rode  the  dapple  on  that  day, 

And  never  more  saw  I  or  horse  or  rider. 

ILLO. 
That  was  a  chance. 

WALLENSTEIN.     (significantly.) 

There's  no  such  thing  as  chance. 
In  brief,  'tis  signed  and  sealed  that  this  Octavio 
Is  my  good  angel — and  now  no  word  more.      [He  is  retiring 

TERTSKY. 
This  is  my  comfort — Max.  remains  our  hostage. 

ILLO. 
And  he  shall  never  stir  from  here  alive. 

WALLENSTEIN.  (stops,  and  turns  himself  round.) 
Are  you  not  like  the  women,  who  forever 
Only  recur  to  their  first  word,  altho' 
One  had  been  talking  reason  by  the  hour? 
Know,  that  the  human  being's  thoughts  and  deeds 
Are  not,  like  ocean  billows,  blindly  moved. 
The  inner  world,  his  microcosmus,  is 
The  deep  shaft,  out  of  which  they  spring  eternally, 
They  grow  by  certain  laws,  like  the  tree's  fruit — 
No  juggling  chance  can  metamorphose  them. 
Have  I  the  human  kernel  first  examined  ? 
Then  I  know,  too,  the  future  will  and  action. 


SCENE  IV. 

Scener-a  chamber  in  Piccolomini' s  dwelling-house. 
OCTAVIO  PICCOLOMINI,  ISOLANI,  (entering.) 

ISOLANI. 
Here  am  I — Well !  who  comes  yet  of  the  others  ? 


54* 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


OCTAVIO.  (with  an  air  of  mystery. ) 
But,  first,  a  word  with  you,  Count  Isolani. 

ISOLANI.  (assuming  the  same  air  of  mystery.} 
Will  it  explode,  ha  ?— Is  the  Duke  about 
To  make  th'  attempt  ?     In  me,  friend,  you  may 
Full  confidence. — Nay,  put  me  to  the  proof. 


OCTAVIO. 


That  may  happen. 


ISOLANI. 

Noble  brother,  I  am 

Not  one  of  those  men  who  in  words  are  valiant, 
And  when  it  comes  to  action  skulk  away. 
The  Duke  has  acted  towards  me  as  a  friend. 

God  knows  it  is  so  ;  and  I  owe  him  all 

He  may  rely  on  my  fidelity. 

OCTAVIO. 
That  will  be  seen  hereafter. 

ISOLANI. 

Be  on  your  guard. 

All  think  not  as  I  think  ;  and  there  are  many 
Who  still  hold  with  the  Court— yes,  and  they  say 
That  those  stolen  signatures  bind  them  to  nothing. 


I  am  rejoiced  to  hear  it. 


OCTAVIO. 

ISOLANI. 
You  rejoice  I 


OCTAVIO. 

That  the  Emperor  hath  yet  such  gallant  servants 
And  loving  friends. 

ISOLANI. 

Nay,  jeer  not,  I  entreat  you. 
They  are  no  such  worthless  fellows,  I  assure  you. 

OCTAVIO. 

I  am  assured  already.     God  forbid 
That  1  should  jest !— In  very  serious  earnest 
I  ain  rejoiced  to  see  an  honest  cause 
So  strong. 


THE  P1CCOLOMINL  543 


ISOLANI. 

The  devil ! — what ! — why,  what  means  this  ? 
Are  you  not,  then For  what,  then,  am  I  here  ? 

OCTAVIO. 

That  you  may  make  full  declaration,  whether. 
You  will  be  called  the  friend  or  enemy 
Of  th'  Emperor. 

ISOLANI.  (with  an  air  of  defiance.) 

That  declaration,  friend, 
I'll  make  to  him  in  whom  a  right  is  placed 
To  put  the  question  to  me. 

OCTAVIO. 

Whether,  Count, 
That  right  is  mine,  this  paper  may  instruct  you. 

ISOLANI.  (stammering.) 
Why — why — what !  this  is  the  Emperor's  hand  and  seal  ? 

[Reads. 

1  Whereas  the  officers  collectively 
Throughout  our  army  will  obey  the  orders 
Of  the  Lieutenant-General  Piccolomini, 
As  from  ourselves.' — Hem  /—Yes  !  so  !— Yes  I  yes  1 
I — I  give  you  joy,  Lieutenant-General  I 

OCTAVIO. 
And  you,  submit  you  to  the  order  ? 

ISOLAffl. 

j 

But  you  have  taken  me  so  by  surprise  — 
Time  for  reflection  one  must  have — 

OCTAVIO. 

Two  minutes. 
ISOLANI. 
My  God !    But  then  the  case  is 

OCTAVIO. 

Plain  and  simple. 

You  must  declare  you,  whether  you  determine 
To  act  a  treason  'gainst  your  Lord  and  Sovereign, 
Or  whether  you  will  serve  him  faithfully. 

ISOLAHT. 
Treason !— My  God  !— But  who  talks  then  of  treason  ? 


544  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

OCTAVIO. 

That  is  the  case.     The  Prince-Duke  is  a  traitor- 
Means  to  lead  over  to  the  enemy 

The  Emperor's  army. — Now,  Count ! — brief  and  full — 
Say  will  you  break  your  oath  to  th'  Emperor  ? 
Sell  yourself  to  the  enemy  ? — Say,  will  you  ? 

ISOLANI. 

What  mean  you  ?     I — I  break  my  oath,  d'ye  say, 

To  his  Imperial  Majesty. 

Did  I  say  so  ? — When,  when  have  I  said  that  ? 

OCTAVIO. 

You  have  not  said  it  yet — not  yet.    This  instant 
I  wait  to  hear,  Count,  whether  you  will  say  it. 

ISOLANI. 

Ay !  that  delights  me  now,  that  you  yourself 
Bear  witness  for  me  that  I  never  said  so. 

OCTAVIO. 
And  you  renounce  the  Duke  then  ? 

ISOLANI. 

If  he's  planning 
Treason — why,  treason  breaks  all  bonds  asunder. 

OCTAVIO. 
And  are  determined,  too,  to  fight  against  him  ? 

ISOLANI. 

He  has  done  me  service — but  if  he's  a  villain, 
Perdition  seize  him  ! — All  scores  are  rubbed  off. 

OCTAVIO. 

I'm  rejoiced  that  you're  so  well  disposed. 
This  night  break  off  in  th'  utmost  secrecy 
With  all  the  light-armed  troops — it  must  appear 
As  came  the  order  from  the  Duke  himself. 
At  Frauenberg's  the  place  of  rendezvous  ; 
There  will  Count  Galas  give  you  further  orders. 

ISOLANI. 

It  shall  be  done.     But  you'll  remember  me 

With  th'  Emperor — how  well-disposed  you  found  m«. 


THE  PICCOLOMINi.  545 


OCTAVIO. 

I  will  not  fail  to  mention  it  honorably. 

[Exit  Isolani.     A  servant  enters. 
What,  Colonel  Butler ! — Show  him  up. 
ISOLANI.  (returning.) 

Forgive  ine,  too,  my  bearish  ways,  old  father  ! 
Lord  Ood  !  how  should  I  know,  then,  what  a  great 
Person  1  had  before  me. 

OCTAVIO. 
No  excuses. 

ISOLANI. 

I  am  a  merry  lad,  and  if  at  times 
A  rash  word  might  escape  me  'gainst  the  court 
Amidst  my  wine — you  know  no  harm  was  meant.  [Exit 

OCTAVIO. 

You  need  not  be  unoasy  on  that  score. 
That  has  succeeded.  Fortune  favor  us 
With  all  the  others  only  but  as  much ! 

SCENE    V. 

OCTAVIO  PICCOLOMINI,  BUTLER. 

BUTLER. 
At  your  command,  Lieutenant-General. 

OCTAVIO. 
Welcome,  as  honored  friend  and  visitor. 

BUTLER. 
You  do  me  too  much  honor. 

OCTAVIO.  (after  both  have  seated  themselves.} 

You  have  not 

Returned  the  advances  which  I  made  you  yesterday-- 
Misunderstood them,  as  mere  empty  forms. 
That  wish  proceeded  from  my  heart — I  was 
In  earnest  with  you — for  'tis  now  a  time 
In  which  the  honest  should  unite  most  closely. 

BUTLER. 
'Tis  only  the  like-minded  can  unite. 


546  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

OCTAVIO. 

True !  and  I  name  all  honest  men  like-minded. 
I  never  charge  a  man  but  with  those  acts 
To  which  his  character  deliberately 
Impels  him  ;  for  alas  !  the  violence 
Of  blind  misunderstandings  often  thrusts 
The  very  best  of  us  from  the  right  track. 
You  came  thro'  Frauenberg.     Did  the  Count 
Say  nothing  to  you  ?    Tell  me.    He's  my  friend. 

BUTLER. 
His  words  were  lost  on  me. 

OCTAVIO. 

It  grieves  me  sorely 

To  hear  it,  for  his  counsel  was  most  wise. 
I  had  myself  the  like  to  offer. 

BUTLER. 

Spare 

Yourself  the  trouble,  me  th'  embarrassment, 
To  have  deserved  so  ill  your  good  opinion. 

OCTAVIO. 

The  time  is  precious— let  us  talk  openly. 
You  know  how  matters  stand  here.     Wallenstein 
Meditates  treason — I  can  tell  you  further — 
He  has  committed  treason  ;  but  few  hours 
Have  passed,  since  he  a  covenant  concluded 
With  th'  enemy.      The  messengers  are  now 
Full  on  their  way  to  Egra  and  to  Prague. 
To-morrow  he  intends  to  lead  us  over 
To  th'  enemy.     But  he  deceived  himself  ; 
For  prudence  wakes— the  Emperor  has  still 
Many  and  faithful  friends  here,  and  they  stand 
In  closest  union,  mighty  tho'  unseen. 
This  manifesto  sentences  the  Duke- 
Recalls  the  obedience  of  the  army  from  him, 
And  summons  all  the  loyal,  all  the  honest, 
To  join  and  recognize  in  rue  their  leader. 
Choose— will  you  share  with  us  an  honest  cause  ? 
Or  witk  the  evil  share  an  evil  lot  ? 

BUTLER,  (rises.) 
His  lot  is  mine. 

OCTAVIO. 

Is  that  your  last  resolve  ? 


THE  PICCOLOMINL  547 


BUTLER. 

It  is. 

OCTAVIO. 

Nay,  but  bethink  you,  Colonel  Butler  ! 

As  yet  you  have  time.     Within  my  faithful  breast 

That  rashly  uttered  word  remains  interred. 

Recall  it,  Butler  !  choose  a  better  party. 

You  have  not  chosen  the  right  one. 

BUTLER,  (going.) 

Any  other 
Commands  for  me,  Lieutenant-General. 

OCTAVIO. 
See  your  white  hairs  !    Recall  that  word  I 

BUTLER. 

Farewell ! 

OCTAVIO. 

What !  would  you  draw  this  good  and  gallant  sword 
In  such  a  cause  ?     Into  *  curse  would  you 
Transform  the  gratitude  which  you  have  earned 
By  forty  years'  fidelity  from  Austria  ? 

BUTLER,  (laughing  with  bitterness.) 
Gratitude  from  the  house  of  Austria.  [He  is.  going 

OCTAVIO.  (permits  him  to  go  as  far  as  the  door,  then  calls  after 

him.) 
Butler ! 

BUTLER. 
What  wish  you  ? 

OCTAVIO. 

How  was't  with  the  Count  ? 

BUTLER. 
.Count?  what? 

OCTAVIO.  (coldly.) 
The  title  that  you  wished  I  mean. 

BUTLER,  (starts  in  sudden  passion.) 
Hell  and  damnation  ! 

OCTAVIO.  (coldly.) 

You  petitioned  for  it — 
I  And  your  petition  was  repelled — Was't  so  ? 


548  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


BUTLER. 

Your  insolent  scoff  shall  not  go  by  unpunished. 
Draw! 

OCTAVIO. 

Nay !  your  sword  to  its  sheath  !  and  tell  me  calnriy 
How  all  that  happened.     I  will  not  refuse  you 
Your  satisfaction  afterwards. — Calmly,  Butler. 

BUTLER. 

Be  the  whole  world  acquainted  with  the  weakness 
For  which  I  never  can  forgive  myself, 
Lieuten ant-General !     Yes,  I  have  ambition. 
Ne'er  was  I  able  to  endure  contempt. 
It  stung  me  to  the  quick,  that  birth  and  title 
Should  have  more  weight  than  merit  has  in  th'  army. 
I  would  fain  not  be  meaner  than  my  equal, 
So  in  an  evil  hour  I  let  myself 
Be  tempted  to  that  measure — It  was  folly  ! 
But  yet  so  hard  a  penance  it  deserved  not. 
It  might  have  been  refused  ;  but  wherefore  barb 
And  venom  the  refusal  with  contempt  ? 
Why  dash  to  earth  and  crush  with  heaviest  scorn 
The  gray-haired  man,  the  faithful  veteran? 
Why  to  the  baseness  of  h\s  parentage 
Refer  him  with  such  cruel  roughness,  only 
Because  he  had  a  weak  hour  and  forgot  himself  ? 
But  nature  gives  a  sting  e'en  to  the  worm 
Which  wanton  power  treads  on  in  sport  and  insult. 

OCTAVIO. 

You  must  have  been  calumniated.     Guess  you 
The  enemy,  who  did  you  this  ill  service  ? 

BUTLER. 

Be't  who  it  will — a  most  low-hearted  scoundrel, 
Some  vile  court-minion  must  it  be,  some  Spaniard, 
Some  young  squire  of  some  ancient  family, 
In  whose  light  I  may  stand,  some  envious  knave, 
Stung  to  his  soul  by  my  fair  self-earned  honors  ! 

OCTAVIO. 
But  tell  me  !    Did  the  Duke  approve  that  measure  ? 

BUTLER. 

Himself  impelled  me  to  it,  used  his  interest 
In  my  behalf  with  all  the  warmth  of  friendship. 


THE  PTCCOLOMINT.  549 


OCTAVIO. 
A^?  Are  you  sure  of  that  ? 

BUTLER. 

I  read  the  letter. 

OCTAVIO. 
And  so  did  I — but  the  contents  were  different. 

[Butler  is  suddenly  struck. 
By  chance  I'm  in  possession  of  that  letter — 
Can  leave  it  to  your  own  eyes  to  convince  you. 

[He  gives  him  the  letter. 
BUTLER. 
Ha !  what  is  this  ? 

OCTAVIO. 

I  fear  me,  Colonel  Butler, 

An  infamous  game  they  have  been  playing  with  you. 
The  Duke,  you  say,  impelled  you  to  this  measure  ? 
Now,  in  this  letter  talks  he  in  contempt 
Concerning  you  ;  counsels  the  minister 
To  give  sound  chastisement  to  your  conceit, 
For  so  he  calls  it. 

[Sutler  readj  through  the  letter,  his  knees  tremble,  he 

a  chair,  and  sinks  down  in  it. 
You  have  no  enemy,  no  persecutor  ; 
There's  no  one  wishes  ill  to  you.     Ascribe 
The  insult  you  received  to  the  Duke  only. 
His  aim  is  clear  and  palpable.     He  wished 
To  tear  you  from  your  Emperor — he  hoped 
To  gain  from  your  revenge  what  he  well  knew 
vWhat  your  long-tried  fidelity  convinced  him) 
He  ne'er  could  dare  expect  from  your  calm  reason. 
A  blind  tool  would  he  make  you,  in  contempt 
Use  you  as  means  of  most  abandoned  ends. 
He  has  gained  his  point.     Too  well  has  he  succeeded 
In  luring  you  away  from  that  good  path 
On  which  you  b^d  been  journeying  forty  years ! 

BUTLER,  (his  voice  trembling.') 
Can  e'er  the  Emperor's  Majesty  forgive  me  ? 

OCTAVIO. 

More  than  forgive  you.     He  would  fain  compensate 
For  that  affront,  and  most  unmerited  grievance 
Sustained  by  a  deserving,  gallant  veteran. 
Prom  his  free  impulse  he  confirms  the  present, 


55<>  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


Which  the  Duke  made  you  for  a  wicked  purpose. 
The  regiment,  which  you  now  command,  is  yours. 

{Butler  attempts  to  rise,  sinks  down  again.  He  labors  in- 
wardly with  violent  emotions  ;  tries  to  speak,  and  cannot. 
At  length  he  takes  his  sword  from  the  belt,  and  offers  it  to 
Piccolomini. 

OCTAVIO. 
What  wish  you  ?    Recollect  yourself,  friend. 

BUTLER. 

O  take  it. 
OCTAVIO. 
But  to  what  purpose  ?    Calm  yourself. 

BUTLER. 

O  take  it ! 
I  am  no  longer  worthy  of  this  sword. 

OCTAVIO. 

Receive  it  then  anew  from  my  hands — and 
Wear  it  with  honor  for  the  right  cause  ever. 

BUTLER. 
Perjure  myself  to  such  a  gracious  Sovereign  I 

OCTAVIO. 
You'll  make  amends.    Quick !  break  off  from  the  Dukt  t 

BUTLER. 
Break  off  from  him  I 

OCTAVIO. 
What  now  ?    Bethink  thyself. 

BUTLER,  (no  longer  governing  his  emotion.) 
Only  break  off  from  him  !— He  dies  1  he  dies  1 

OCTAVIO. 

Come  after  me  to  Frauenberg,  where  now 
All,  who  are  loyal,  are  assembling  under 
Counts  Altringer  and  Galas.     Many  others 
I've  brought  to  a  remembrance  of  their  duty. 
This  night  be  sure  that  you  escape  from  Pilsen. 

BUTLER,  (strides  up  and  down  in  excessive  agitation,  then  step 

up  to  Octavio  with  resolved  countenanf.fi. 
Count  Piccolomini !     Dare  that  man  speak 
Of  honor  to  you,  who  once  broke  his  troth. 


THE  PICCOLOMINI.  5$  I 


OCTAVIO. 
He,  who  repents  so  deeply  of  it,  dares. 

BUTLER. 
Then  leave  me  here,  upon  my  word  of  honor ! 

OCTAVIO. 
What's  your  design  ? 

BUTLER. 
Leave  me  and  my  regiment. 

OCTAVIO. 

I  have  full  confidence  in  you.     But  tell  me 
What  are  you  brooding  ? 

BUTLER. 

That  the  deed  will  tell  you. 
Ask  me  no  more  at  present.     Trust  to  me  ; 
Ye  may  trust  safely.     By  the  living  God 
Ye  give  him  over,  not  to  his  good  angel  I 
Farewell ! 

SERVANT,  (enters  with  a  billet.) 
A  stranger  left  it,  and  is  gone. 
The  Prince-Duke's  horses  wait  for  you  below. 

OCTAVIO.  (reads.) 

'  Be  sure,  make  haste  !     Your  faithful  Isolan.' 
— O  that  I  had  but  left  this  town  behind  me. 
To  split  upon  a  rock  so  near  the  haven  ! — 
Away  !     This  is  no  longer  a  safe  place  for  me  I 
Where  can  my  son  be  tarrying  ? 

SCENE  VI. 
OCTAVIO  and  MAX.  PICCOLOMINI. 

(MAX.  enters  almost  in  a  state  of  derangement  from  extreme  agi- 
tation, his  eyes  roll  wildly,  his  walk  is  unsteady,  and  he  ap- 
pears not  to  observe  his  father,  who  stands  at  a  distance,  and 
gazes  at  him  with  a  countenance  expressive  of  compassion. 
He  paces  with  long  strides  through  the  chamber,  then  stands 
still  again,  and  at  last  throws  himself  into  a  chair,  staring 
vacantly  at  the  object  directly  before  him) 

OCTAVIO.  (advances  to  him.) 
I  am  going  off,  my  scm. 

[Receiving  no  answer,  he  takes  his  hand. 
My  son,  farewell. 


552  COLE  KID  GE  'S  POEMS. 

MAX. 
Farewell. 

OCTAVIO, 
Thou  wilt  soon  follow  me  ? 

MAX. 

I  follow  thee  ? 
Thy  way  is  crooked — it  is  not  my  way. 

[Octavio  drops  his  hand,  and  starts  back. 
O,  hadst  thou  been  but  simple  arid  sincere, 
Ne'er  had  it  come  to  this— all  had  stood  otherwise. 
He  had  not  done  that  foul  and  horrible  deed, 
The  virtuous  had  retained  their  influence  o'er  him : 
He  had  not  fallen  into  the  snares  of  villains. 
Wherefore  so  like  a  thief,  and  thief's  accomplice, 
Didst  creep  behind  him— lurking  for  thy  prey  ? 
O,  unblest  falsehood  !  Mother  of  all  evil ! 
Thou  misery-making  demon,  it  is  thou 
That  sink'st  us  in  perdition.    Simple  truth, 
Sustainer  of  the  world,  had  saved  us  all ! 
Father,  I  will  not,  I  cannot  excuse  thee  ! 
Wallenstein  has  deceived  me — O,  most  foully  1 
But  thou  has  acted  not  much  better. 

OCTAVIO. 

Son! 
My  son,  ah  !  I  forgive  thy  agony  ! 

MAX.  (rises  and  contemplates  his  father  with  looks  of  suspicion 

Was't  possible  ?  hadst  thou  the  heart,  my  father, 

Iladst  thou  the  heart  to  drive  it  to  such  lengths, 

With  cold  premeditated  purpose  ?    Thou — 

Hadst  thou  the  heart,  to  wish  to  see  him  guilty, 

Rather  than  saved  ?    Thou  risest  by  his  fall. 

Octavio,  'twill  not  please  me. 

OCTAVIO. 

God  in  heaven ! 
MAX. 

O,  woe  is  me  !  sure  I  have  changed  my  nature. 
How  comes  suspicion  here — in  the  free  soul  ? 
Hope,  confidence,  belief,  are  gone  ;  for  all 
Lied  to  me,  all  that  I  e'er  loved  or  honored. 
No  !  No  I  Not  all ;  She — she  yet  lives  for  me, 
And  she  is  true,  and  open  as  the  heavens  I 
Deceit  is  everywhere,  hypocrisy, 


THE  PICCOLOMINL  553 


Murder,  and  poisoning,  treason,  perjury  : 

The  single  holy  spot  is  our  love, 

The  only  unprofaned  in  hdman  nature. 

OCTAVIO. 
Max. !— we  will  go  together.     'Twill  be  better. 

MAX. 

What  ?  ere  I've  taken  a  last  parting  leave, 
The  very  last — no,  never  ! 

OCTAVIO. 
Spare  thyself 

The  pang  of  necessary  separation, 
Come  with  me  I     Come,  my  son  ! 

[Attempts  to  take  him  with  him. 

MAX. 
No  !  as  sure  as  God  lives,  no  ! 

OCTAVIO.  (more  urgently.) 
Come  with  me,  I  command  thee !     I,  thy  father. 

MAX. 
Command  me  what  is  human.    I  stay  here. 

OCTAVIO. 
Max.  !  in  the  Emperor's  name  I  bid  thee  come. 

MAX. 

No  Emperor  hath  power  to  prescribe 
Laws  to  the  heart ;  and  would 'st  thou  wish  to  rob  me 
Of  the  sole  blessing  which  my  fate  has  left  me, 
Her  sympathy.     Must  then  a  cruel  deed 
Be  done  with  cruelty  ?    The  unalterable 
Shall  I  perform  ignobly — steal  away, 
With  stealthy  coward  flight  forsake  her  ?    No  I 
She  shall  behold  my  suffering,  my  sore  anguish, 
Hear  the  complaints  of  the  disparted  soul, 
And  weep  tears  o'er  me.     O  !  the  human  race 
Have  steely  souls — but  she  is  as  an  angel. 
From  the  black  deadly  madness  of  despair 
Will  she  redeem  my  soul,  and  in  soft  words 
Of  comfort,  plaining,  loose  this  pang  of  death  ! 

OCTAVIO. 

Thou  wilt  not  tear  thyself  away,  thou  canst  not. 
O,  come,  my  son  !     I  bid  thee  save  thy  virtue. 


554  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


MAX. 

Squander  not  thou  thy  words  in  vain  ; 
The  heart  I  follow,  for  I  dare  "trust  to  it. 

OCTAVIO.  (trembling,  and  losing  all  self-command.) 
Max  !  Max. !  if  that  most  damned  thing  could  be, 
If  thou — my  son — my  own  blood — (dare  I  think  it  ?) 
Do  sell  thyself  to  him,  the  infamous ; 
Do  stamp  this  brand  upon  our  noble  house  ; 
Then  shall  the  world  behold  the  horrible  deed, 
And  in  unnatural  combat  shall  the  steel 
Of  the  son  trickle  with  the  father's  blood. 

MAX. 

O  hadst  thou  always  better  thought  of  men, 
Thou  hadst  then  acted  better.     Curst  suspicion  I 
Unholy  miserable  doubt !     To  him 
Nothing  on  earth  remains  un wrenched  and  firm. 
Who  has  no  faith. 

OCTAVIO. 

And  if  I  trust  thy  heart, 
Will  it  be  always  in  thy  power  to  follow  it  ? 

MAX. 

The  heart's  voice  thou  hast  not  o'erpowered — as  little 
Will  Wallenstein  be  able  to  o'erpower  it. 

OCTAVIO. 

0  Max. !  I  see  thee  never  more  again ! 

MAX. 
Unworthy  of  thee  wilt  thou  never  see  me. 

OCTAVIO. 

1  go  to  Frauenberg— the  Pappenheimers 

I  leave  thee  here,  the  Lothrings  too  ;  Toskana 
And  Tiefenbach  remain  here  to  protect  thee. 
They  love  thee,  and  are  faithful  to  their  oath, 
And  will  far  rather  fall  in  gallant  contest 
Than  leave  their  rightful  leader,  and  their  honor. 

MAX. 

Rely  on  till-*,  I  either  leave  my  life 
In  the  struggle,  or  conduct  them  out  of  Pilsen. 

OCTAVIO. 
Farewell,  my  son  I 


THE  PICCOLOMINL  555 


MAX. 

Farewell  ! 

OCTAVIO, 

How  ?  not  one  look 

Of  filial  love  ?     No  grasp  of  the  hand  at  parting  ? 
It  is  a  bloody  war,  to  which  we  are  going, 
And  the  event  uncertain  and  in  darkness. 
So  used  we  not  to  part — it  was  not  so  ! 
Is  it  then  true  ?     I  have  a  son  no  longer. 

[ Max.  falls  into  his  arms,  they  hold  each  other  for  a  long 
time  in  a  speechless  embrace,  then  go  away  at  different 
sides.  The  curtain  drops. 


THE 

DEATH   OF    WALLENSTEIN. 


ACT  I. 

• 

Scene — A  Chamber  in  the  House  of  the  Duchess  of  Friedland. 

SCENE  I. 

COUNTESS  TERTSKY,THEKLA,  LADY  NEUBRUNN. 
(The  two  latter  sit  at  the  same  table  at  work.) 

COUNTESS,  (watching  them  from  the  opposite  side.) 
So  you  have  nothing,  niece,  to  ask  me  ?     Nothing  ? 
1  have  been  waiting  for  a  word  from  you. 
And  could  you  then  endure  in  all  this  time 
Not  once  to  speak  his  name  ? 

[Thekla  remaining  silent,  the  Countess  rises  and  advances 
to  her. 

Why,  how  conies  this  ? 
Perhaps  I  am  already  grown  superfluous, 
And  other  ways  exist,  besides  through  me? 
Confess  it  to  me,  Thekla  I  have  you  seen  him  ? 

THEKLA. 
To-day  and  yesterday  I  have  not  seen  him. 

COUNTESS. 
And  not  heard  from  hiin  either  ?    Come,  be  open  I 

THEKLA. 
No  syllable. 

COUNTESS. 
And  still  you  are  so  calm  ? 

I  am. 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  557 


COUNTESS. 
May't  please  you,  leave  us,  Lady  Neubrunn  ! 

{Exit  Lady  Neubrunn* 

SCENE  II. 

The  COUNTESS,  THEKLA. 

COUNTESS. 

It  does  not  please  me,  Princess  !  that  he  holds  „ 
Himself  so  still,  exactly  at  this  time. 

THEKLA. 
Exactly  at  this  time. 

COUNTESS. 

He  now  knows  all. 
'Twere  now  the  moment  to  declare  himself. 

THEKLA. 
If  I'm  to  understand  you,  speak  less  darkly. 

COUNTESS. 

'Twas  for  that  purpose  that  I  bade  her  leave  us. 
Thekla,  you  are  no  more  a  child.     Your  heart 
Is  now  no  more  in  nonage  ;  for  you  love, 
And  boldness  dwells  with  love — that  you  have  proved. 
Your  nature  moulds  itself  ufcon  your  father's 
More  than  your  mother's  spirit.     Therefore  may  you 
Hear,  what  were  too  much  for  her  fortitude. 

THEKLA. 

Enough  !  no  further  preface,  I  entreat  you, 
At  once,  out  with  it !     Be  it  what  it  may, 
It  is  not  possible  that  it  should  torture  me 
More  than  this  introduction.     What  have  you 
To  say  to  me  ?    Tell  me  the  whole,  and  briefly  I 

COUNTESS. 
You'll  not  be  frightened — 

THEKLA. 

Name  it,  I  entreat  you. 

COUNTESS. 

It  lies  within  your  power  to  do  your  father 
A  weighty  service— 


558  COLERIDGE  'S  POEMS. 

THEKLA. 
Lies  within  my  power  ? 

COUNTESS. 

Max.  Piccolomini  loves  you.    You  can  link  him 
Indissolubly  to  your  father. 

THEKLA. 

I? 

What  need  of  me  for  that  ?    And  is  he  not 
Already  linked  to  him  ? 

COUNTESS. 
He  was, 

THEKLA. 

And  wherefore 
Should  he  not  be  so  now — not  be  so  always  ? 

COUNTESS. 

He  cleaves  to  the  Emp'ror  too. 

• 

THEKLA. 

Not  more  than  duty 
And  honor  may  demand  of  him. 

COUNTESS. 

We  ask 

Proofs  of  his  love,  and  not  proofs  of  his  honor. 
Duty  and  honor ! 

Those  are  ambiguous  words  with  many  meanings. 
You  should  interpret  them  for  him  :  his  love 
Should  be  the  sole  definer  of  his  honor. 

THEKLA. 

How? 
COUNTESS. 
The  Emperor  or  you  must  he  renounce. 

THEKLA. 

He  will  accompany  my  father  gladly 
In  his  retirement.     From  himself  you  heard, 
How  much  he  wished  to  lay  aside  the  sword. 

COUNTESS. 

He  must  not  lay  the  sword  aside,  we  mean  ; 
He  must  unsheath  it  in  your  father's  cause. 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  559 


THEKLA. 

He'll  spend  with  gladness  and  alacrity 
His  life,  his  heart's  blood,  in  my  father's  cause, 
If  shame  or  injury  be  intended  him. 

COUNTESS. 

You  will  not  understand  me.     Well,  hear  then  ! 
Your  father  has  fallen  off  from  the  Emperor. 
And  is  about  to  join  the  enemy 
With  the  whole  soldiery — 

THEKLA. 

Alas,  my  mother  I 

COUNTESS. 

There  needs  a  great  example  to  draw  on 
The  army  after  him.     The  Piccolomini 
Possess  the  love  and  rev'rence  of  the  troops  ; 
They  govern  all  opinions,  and  wherever 
They  lead  the  way,  none  hesitate  to  follow ; 
The  son  secures  the  father  to  our  interests — 
You've  much  in  your  hands  at  this  moment. 

THEKLA. 

Ah, 

My  miserable  mother  !  what  a  death-stroke 
Awaits  thee  ! — No !  She  never  will  survive  it. 

COUNTESS. 

She  will  accommodate  her  soul  to  that 
Which  is  and  must  be.     I  do  know  your  mother. 
The  far-off  future  weighs  upon  her  heart 
With  torture  of  anxiety  ;  but  is  it 
Unalterably,  actually  present, 
She  soon  resigns  herself,  and  bears  it  calmly. 

THEKLA. 

0  my  foreboding  bosom  !     Even  now, 
E'en  now  'tis  here,  that  icy  hand  of  horror ! 
And  my  young  hope  lies  shuddering  in  its  grasp. 

1  knew  it  well — no  sooner  had  I  entered, 
A  heavy,  ominous  presentiment 

Revealed  to  me,  that  spirits  of  death  were  hov'ring 
Over  my  happy  fortune.     But  why  think  I 
First  of  myself  ?    My  mother  !     O  my  mother  1 


560  COLERIDG&S  POEMS. 

COUNTESS. 

Caiin  yourself !     Break  not  out  in  vain  lamenting  ! 
Preserve  you  for  your  father  the  firm  friend, 
And  for  yourself  the  lover  ;  all  will  yet 
Prove  good  and  fortunate. 

THEKLA. 

Prove  good  ?    What  good  ? 
Must  we  not  part?    Part  ne'er  to  meet  again  ? 

COUNTESS. 
He  parts  not  from  you  !    He  can  not  part  from  you. 

THEKLA. 

Alas  for  his  sore  anguish  !  It  will  rend 
His  heart  asunder. 

COUNTESS. 

If  indeed  he  loves  you, 
His  resolution  will  be  speedily  taken. 

THEKLA. 

His  resolution  will  be  speedily  taken — 
O  do  not  doubt  of  that !  A  resolution ! 
Does  there  remain  one  to  be  taken  I 

COUNTESS. 

Hush! 
Collect  yourself  !    I  hear  your  mother  coining. 

THEKLA. 
How  shall  I  bear  to  see  her  ? 

COUNTESS. 

Collect  yourseif. 

SCENE  III. 

To  them  enter  the  DUCHESS. 
DUCHESS,  (to  the  Countess) 

Who  was  here,  sister  ?    I  hear  some  one  talking, 
And  passionately  too. 

COUNTESS. 

Nay  !    There  was  no  one. 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  561 

DUCHESS. 

I  am  grown  so  timorous,  every  trifling  noise 
Scatters  my  spirits,  and  announces  to  me 
The  footstep  of  some  messenger  of  evil. 
And  can  you  tell  me,  sister,  what  the  event  is  ? 
Will  he  agree  to  do  the  Emperor's  pleasure, 
And  send  th'  horse-regiments  to  the  Cardinal  ; 
Tell  me.  has  he  dismissed  Von  Questenberg 
With  a  favorable  answer  ? 

COUNTESS. 

No,  he  has  not. 

DUCHESS. 

Alas  !  then  all  is  lost !     I  see  it  coming, 
The  worst  that  can  come  !     Yes,  they  will  depose  him  j 
The  accursed  business  of  the  Regenspurg  diet 
Will  all  be  acted  o'er  again  ! 

COUNTESS. 

No  !  never ! 
Make  your  heart  easy,  sister,  as  to  that. 

[Thekla,  in    extreme  agitation,  throws  herself  upon 
her  mother,  and  enfolds  her  in  her  arms,  weeping. 

DUCHESS 

Yes,  my  poor  child  ! 

Thou  too  hast  lost  a  most  affectionate  godmother 
In  th'  empress.     O  that  stern  unbending  man  ! 
In  this  unhappy  marriage  what  have  I 
Not  suffered,  not  endured.     For  ev'n  as  if 
I  had  been  linked  on  to  some  wheel  of  fire, 
That  restless,  ceaseless,  whirls  impetuous  onward, 
I  have  past  a  life  of  frights  and  horrors  with  him, 
And  ever  to  the  brink  of  some  abyss 
With  dizzy  headlong  violence  he  whirls  me. 
Nay,  do  not  weep,  my  child  !     Let  not  my  sufferings 
Presignify  unhappiness  to  thee, 

Nor  blacken  with  their  shade,  the  fate  that  waits  thee. 
There  lives  no  second  Friedland  :  thou,  my  child, 
Hast  not  to  fear  thy  mother's  destiny. 

THEKLA. 

O  let  us  supplicate  him,  dearest  mother! 
Quick  !  quick  !  here's  no  abiding  place  for  us. 
Here  every  coming  hour  broods  into  life 
Some  new  affrightful  monster. 

36 


562  COLERID.GE  'S  POEMS. 

DUCHESS. 

Thou  wilt  share 

An  easier,  calmer  lot,  my  child  !     We  too, 
I  and  thy  father,  witness  happy  days. 
Still  think  I  with  delight  of  those  first  years, 
When  he  was  making  progress  with  glad  effort, 
When  his  ambition  was  a  genial  fire, 
Not  that  consuming  flame  which  now  it  is. 
The  Emperor  loved  him,  trusted  him  ;  and  all 
He  undertook,  could  not  but  be  successful. 
But  since  that  ill-starred  day  at  Regenspurg, 
Which  plunged  him  headlong  from  his  dignity, 
A  gloomy  uncompanionable  spirit, 
Unsteady  and  suspicious,  has  possessed  him, 
His  quiet  mind  forsook  him,  and  no  longer 
Did  he  yield  up  himself  in  joy  and  faith 
To  his  old  luck,  and  individual  power  : 
But  thenceforth  turned  his  heart  and  best  affections 
All  to  those  cloudy  sciences,  which  never 
Have  yet  made  happy  him  who  followed  them. 

COUNTESS. 

You  see  it,  sister  !  as  your  eyes  permit  you, 
But  surely  this  is  not  the  conversation 
To  pass  the  time  in  which  we  are  waiting  for  him. 
You  know  he  will  be  soon  here.     Would  you  have  him 
Find  her  in  this  condition ! 

DUCHESS. 
Come,  my  child ! 

Come,  wipe  away  thy  tears,  and  show  thy  father 
A  cheerful  countenance.     See,  the  tie-knot  here 
Is  off — this  hair  must  not  hang  so  dishevelled. 
Come,  dearest !  dry  thy  tears  up.     They  deform 
Thy  gentle  eye — well  now — what  was  I  saying  ? 
Yes,  in  good  truth,  this  Piccolomini 
Is  a  most  noble  and  deserving  gentleman. 

COUNTESS. 
That  is  he,  sister ! 

THEKLA.  (to  the  Countess,  with  marks  of  great  oppression  of 

spirits.) 
Aunt,  you  will  excuse  me  ?          [Is  going 

COUNTESS. 
But  whither  ?    See,  your  father  comes. 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  563 

THEKLA. 
I  cannot  see  him  now. 

COUNTESS. 
Nay,  but  bethink  you. 

THEKLA. 
Believe  me,  I  cannot  sustain  his  presence. 

COUNTESS. 
But  he  will  miss  you,  will  ask  after  you. 

DUCHESS. 
What  now  ?    Why  is  she  going  ? 

COUNTESS. 

She's  not  well. 

DUCHESS. 
What  ails  then  my  beloved  child  ?  (anxiously.) 

[Both  follow  the  Princess,  and  endeavor  to  detain  her. 
During  this  Wallenstein  appears,  engaged  in  con- 
versation  with  Illo. 

SCENE  IV. 

WALLENSTEIN,  ILLO,  COUNTESS,  DUCHESS,  THEKLA- 

WALLENSTEIN. 
All  quiet  in  the  camp  ? 

ILLO. 
It  is  all  quiet. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

In  a  few  hours  may  couriers  come  from  Prague 
With  tidings  that  this  capital  is  ours. 
Then  we  may  drop  the  mask,  and  to  the  troops 
Assembled  in  this  town,  make  known  the  measure 
And  its  result  together.      In  such  cases 
Example  does  the  whole.     Whoever  is  foremost 
Still  leads  the  herd.     An  imitative  creature 
Is  man.     The  troops  at  Prague  conceive  no  other, 
Than  that  the  Pilsen  army  has  gone  through 
The  forms  of  homage  to  us  ;   and  in  Pilsen 
They  shall  answer  fealty  to  us,  because 


5  $4  COLE  Rip  GE  'S  POEMS. 


The  example  has  been  given  them  by  Prague. 
Butler,  you  tell  me,  has  declared  himself. 

LLLO. 

At  his  own  bidding,  unsolicited, 

He  came  to  offer  you  himself  and  regiment. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

I  find  we  must  not  give  implicit  credence 

To  every  warning  voice  that  makes  itself 

Be  listened  to  in  th'  heart.     To  hold  us  back, 

Oft  does  the  lying  spirit  counterfeit 

The  voice  of  truth  and  inward  revelation, 

Scatt'ring  false  oracles.     And  thus  have  I 

To  entreat  forgiveness,  for  that  secretly 

I've  wronged  this  honorable  gallant  man, 

This  Butler :  for  a  feeling,  of  the  which 

I  am  not  master  (fear  I  would  not  call  it), 

Creeps  o'er  me  instantly,  with  sense  of  shudd'ring, 

At  his  approach,  and  stops  love's  joyous  motion. 

And  this  same  man,  against  whom  I  was  warned, 

This  honest  man  is  he,  who  reaches  to  me 

The  first  pledge  of  my  fortune. 

ILLO. 

And  doubt  not 

That  this  example  will  win  over  to  you 
The  best  men  in  the  army. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Go  and  send 

Isolani  hither.     Send  him  immediately. 
He  is  under  recent  obligations  to  me. 
With  him  will  I  commence  the  trial.     Go.  [Exit 

WALLENSTEIN.  (turns  himself  round  to  the  females.) 

Lo,  there  the  mother  with  the  darling  daughter, 
For  once  we'll  have  an  interval  of  rest — 
Come  !  my  heart  yearns  to  live  a  cloudless  hour 
In  the  beloved  circle  of  my  family. 

COUNTESS. 
'Tis  long  since  we've  been  thus  together,  brother. 

WALLENSTEIX.  (to  the  Countess,  aside.) 
Can  she  sustain  the  news  ?    Is  she  prepared  ? 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEW.  565 


COUNTESS. 
Not  yet. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Come  here,  my  sweet  girl !    Seat  thee  by  me, 
For  there  is  a  good  spirit  on  thy  lips. 
Thy  mother  praised  to  me  thy  ready  skill : 
She  says  a  voice  of  melody  dwells  in  thee, 
Which  doth  enchant  the  soul.     Now  such  a  voice 
Will  drive  away  for  me  the  evil  demon 
That  beats  his  black  wings  close  above  my  head. 

DUCHESS. 

Where  is  thy  lute,  my  daughter  ?    Let  thy  father 
Hear  some  small  trial  of  thy  skill. 

THEKLA. 

My  mother  1 

DUCHESS. 

Trembling  ?    Come,  collect  thyself.    Go,  cheer 
Thy  father. 

THEKLA. 
O  my  mother  I  I — I  cannot. 

COUNTESS. 
How,  what  is  that,  niece  ? 

THEKLA.  (to  the  Countess.) 
O  spare  me — sing — now — in  this  sore  anxiety 
Of  the  o'erburthened  soul — to  sing  to  him, 
Who  is  thrusting,  even  now,  my  mother  headlong 
Into  her  grave. 

DUCHESS. 

How,  Thekla  ?     Humorsome  ? 
What !  shall  thy  father  have  expressed  a  wish 
In  vain  ? 

COUNTESS. 
Here  is  the  lute. 

THEKLA. 

My  God  !  how  can  I — 

[The  orchestra  plays.     During  the    ritornello,   Thekla  expresses^ 
in  her  gestures  and  countenance,  the  struggle  of  her  feelings  ; 


566  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


and  at  the  moment  that  she  should  begin  to  sing,  contracts 
herself  together,  as  one  shuddering,  throws  the  instrument 
down,  and  retires  abruptly. 

DUCHESS. 
My  child  !  O  she  is  ill— 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What  ails  the  maiden  ? 
Say,  is  she  often  so  ? 

COUNTESS. 
Since,  then,  herself 

Has  now  betrayed  it,  I  too  must  no  longer 
Conceal  it. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
What? 

COUNTESS. 
She  loves  him ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Loves  him !    Whom 
COUNTESS. 

Max.  does  she  love  !  Max.  Piccolomini. 
Hast  thou  ne'er  noticed  it  ?    Nor  yet  my  sister  ? 

DUCHESS. 

Was  it  this  that  lay  so  heavy  on  her  heart  ? 
God's  blessing  on  thee,  ray  sweet  child  !     Thou  need'st 
Never  take  shame  upon  thee  for  thy  choice. 

COUNTESS. 

This  journey,  if  'twere  not  thy  aim,  ascribe  it 
To  thine  own  self.    Thou  should'st  have  chosen  another 
To  have  attended  her. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

And  does  he  know  it  ? 

COUNTESS. 
Yes,  and  he  hopes  to  win  her. 


Is  the  boy  mad  ? 


WALLENSTEIN. 

Hopes  to  win  her  I 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  567 

COUNTESS. 
Well— hear  it  from  themselves. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

He  thinks  to  carry  off  Duke  Friedland's  daughter  ? 
Ay? — the  thought  pleases  me. 
The  young  man  has  no  grovelling  spirit. 

COUNTESS. 

Since 
Such  and  such  constant  favor  you  have  shown  him. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

He  chooses  finally  to  be  my  heir. 
And  true  it  is,  I  love  the  youth  ;  yea,  honor  him. 
But  must  he,  therefore,  be  my  daughter's  husband? 
Is  it  daughters  only  ?     Is  it  only  children 
That  we  must  show  our  favor  by  ? 

DUCHESS. 
His  noble  disposition  and  his  manners — 

WALLENSTEIN. 
Win  him  my  heart,  but  not  my  daughter. 

DUCHESS. 

Then 
His  rank,  his  ancestors — 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Ancestors !    What ! 
He  is  a  subject ;  and  my  son-in-law 
I  will  seek  out  upon  the  thrones  of  Europe. 

DUCHESS. 

O  dearest  Albrecht !     Climb  we  not  too  high, 
Lest  we  should  fall  too  low. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What  ?  have  I  paid 

A  price  so  heavy  to  ascend  this  eminence, 
And  jut  out  high  above  the  common  herd, 
Only  to  close  the  mighty  part  I  play 
In  life's  great  drama,  with  a  common  kinsman? 
Have  I  for  this —  [stops  suddenly,  repressing  himself. 

She  is  the  only  thing 
That  will  remain  behind  of  me  on  earth  ; 


568  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


And  I  will  see  a  crown  around  her  head, 

Or  die  in  the  attempt  to  place  it  there. 

I  hazard  all  —  all  !  and  for  this  alone, 

To  lift  her  into  greatness  — 

Yea,  in  this  moment,  in  the  which  we  are  speaking  — 

[he  recollects  himself. 

And  I  must  now,  like  a  soft-hearted  father, 
Couple  together  in  good  peasant  fashion 
The  pair,  that  chance  to  suit  each  other's  liking  — 
And  I  must  do  it  now,  ev'n  now,  when  I 
Am  stretching  out  the  wreath,  that  is  to  twine 
My  full  accomplished  work  —  no  !  she  is  the  jewel, 
Which  I  have  treasured  long,  my  last,  my  noblest, 
And  'tis  my  purpose  riot  to  let  her  from  me 
For  less  than  a  king's  sceptre. 

DUCHESS. 

O  my  husband! 

You're  ever  building,  building  to  rhe^clouds, 
Still  building  higher,  and  still  higher  building, 
And  ne'er  reflect,  that  the  poor  narrow  basis 
Cannot  sustain  the  giddy  tottering  column. 


(to  the  Countess.) 
Have  you  announced  the  place  of  residence 
Which  I  have  destined  for  her  ? 

COUNTESS. 

No  !  not  yet. 
'Twere  better  you  yourself  disclosed  it  to  her. 

DUCHESS. 
How  ?    Do  we  not  return  to  Karn  then  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

No. 

DUCHESS. 
And  to  no  other  of  your  lands  or  seats  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 
You  would  not  be  secure  there. 

DUCHESS. 

Not  secure 

In  the  Emperor's  realms,  beneath  the  Emperor's 
Protection  ? 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  569 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Friedland's  wife  may  be  permitted 
No  longer  to  hope  that. 

DUCHESS. 
O  God  in  heaven  1 
And  have  you  brought  it  even  to  this  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

In  Holland 
You'll  find  protection. 

DUCHESS. 

In  a  Lutheran  country  ? 
What  ?   And  you  send  us  into  Lutheran  countries  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 
Duke  Franz,  of  Lauenberg,  conducts  you  thither. 

DUCHESS. 

Duke  Franz  of  Lauenberg  ? 
The  ally  of  Sweden,  the  Emperor's  enemy. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
The  Emperor's  enemies  are  mine  no  longer. 

DUCHESS,  (casting  a  look  of  terror  on  the  Duke  and  the  Countess-} 
Is  it  then  true  ?     It  is.     You  are  degraded  ? 
Deposed  from  the  command  ?     O  God  in  heaven ! 

COUNTESS,  (aside  to  the  Duke.} 
Leave  her  in  this  belief. 

Thou  seest  she  cannot 
Support  the  real  truth. 

SCENE  V. 

To  them  enter  COUNT  TERTSKY. 
COUNTESS. 

— Tertsky ! 

What  ails  him  ?     What  an  image  of  affright 
He  looks  as  he  had  seen  a  ghost. 

TERTSKY.  (leading  Wallenstein  aside.) 
Is  it  thy  command  that  all  the  Croats — 


57°  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Mine! 

TERTSKY. 
We  are  betrayed. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
What? 

TERTSKY. 

They  are  off !    This  night 
The  Jagers  likewise— all  the  villages 
In  the  whole  round  are  empty. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Isolani  ? 

TERTSKY. 
Him  thou  hast  sent  away.    Yes,  surely. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

I? 

TERTSKY. 

No !     Hast  thou  not  sent  him  off  ?    Nor  Deodate  ? 
They  are  vanished  both  of  them. 


SCENE  VI. 

To  them  enter  ILLO. 

ILLO. 
Has  Tertsky  told  thee  ? 

TERTSKY. 
He  knows  all. 

ILLO. 

And  likewise 

That  Esterhatzy,  Goetz,  Maradas,  Kaunitz, 
Kolatto,  Pain,  have  forsaken  thee? 

TERTSKY. 

Damnation  I 

WALLENSTEIN.  (winks  at  them.) 

Hush! 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 


57' 


COUNTESS,  (who  has  been  watching  them  anxiously  from  the  dis- 
tance, and  now  advances  to  them.) 
Tertsky  !  Heaven!   What  is  it  ?  What  has  happened  ? 

WALLENSTEIN.  (scarcely  suppressing  his  emotions.) 
Nothing !  let  us  be  gone  ! 

TERTSKY.  (following  him.} 

Theresa,  it  is  nothing. 

COUNTESS,  (holding  him  back.) 
Nothing  ?    Do  I  not  see,  that  all  the  life-blood 
Has  left  your  cheeks — look  you  not  like  a  ghost  ? 
That  even  my  brother  but  affects  a  calmness  ? 

PAGE,  (enters.) 

A.n  aide-de-camp  inquires  for  the  Count  Tertsky. 

[Tertsky  follows  the  page. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
Go,  hear  his  business.  [to  Illo. 

This  could  not  have  happened 
So  unsuspected  without  mutiny. 
Who  was  on  guard  at  the  gates  ? 

ILLO. 

'Twas  Tiefenbach. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Let  Tiefenbach  leave  guard  without  delay, 

And  Tertsky's  grenadiers  relieve  him.  [Illo  is  going. 

Stop! 
Hast  thou  heard  aught  of  Butler  ? 

ILLO. 

Him  I  met. 

He  will  be  here  himself  immediately. 
Butler  remains  unshaken. 

[Illo  exit.     Wallenstein  is  following  him. 

COUNTESS. 

Let  him  not  leave  thee,  sister  ?  go,  detain  him  ! 
There's  some  misfortune, 

DUCHESS,  (clinging  to  him.) 
Gracious  Heaven !     What  is  it  ? 


S72  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Be  tranquil !  leave  me,  sister  !  dearest  wife  ! 
We  are  in  camp,  and  this  is  naught  unusual ; 
Here  storm  and  sunshine  follow  one  another 
With  rapid  interchanges.     These  fierce  spirits 
Champ  the  curb  angrily,  and  never  yet 
Did  quiet  bless  the  temples  of  the  leader. 
If  I  am  to  stay,  go  you.     The  plaints  of  women 
111  suit  the  scene  where  men  must  act. 

[He  is  going ;  Tertsky  returns. 

TERTSKY. 
Remain  here.    From  this  window  must  we  see  it. 

WALLENSTEIN.  (to  the  Countess.) 
Sister,  retire  ! 

COUNTESS. 
No— never. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

'Tis  my  will. 

TERTSKY.  (leads  the  Countess  aside,  and  drawing  her  attention 

to  the  Duchess.) 
Theresa ! 

DUCHESS. 
Sister,  come  !  since  he  commands  it. 


SCENE  VII. 
WALLENSTEIN,  TERTSKY. 

WALLENSTEIN.  (stepping  to  the  window.) 
What  now,  then  ? 

TERTSKY. 

There  are  strange  movements  among  all  the  troops, 
And  no  one  knows  the  cause.     Mysteriously, 
With  gloomy  silentness,  the  several  corps 
Marshal  themselves,  each  under  its  own  banners. 
Tiefenbach's  corps  make  threatening  movements  ;  only 
The  Pappenheimers  still  remain  aloof 
In  their  own  quarters,  and  let  no  one  enter. 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSl^EIN.  575 

WALLENSTEIN. 
Does  Piccolomini  appear  among  them  ? 

TERTSKY. 
We  are  seeking  him  :  he  is  nowhere  to  be  met  with. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
What  did  the  aide-de-camp  deliver  to  you  ? 

TERTSKY. 

My  regiments  had  despatched  him  ;  yet  once  more 
They  swear  fidelity  to  thee,  and  wait 
The  shout  for  onset,  all  prepared,  and  eager. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

But  whence  arose  this  laruin  in  the  camp  ? 
It  should  have  been  kept  secret  from  the  army, 
Till  fortune  had  decided  for  us  at  Prague. 

TERTSKY. 

0  that  thou  hadst  believed  me  I     Yester-evening 
Did  we  conjure  thee  not  to  let  that  skulker, 
That  fox,  Octavio,  pass  the  gates  of  Pilsen. 
Thou  gavest  him  thy  own  horses  to  flee  from  thee. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The  old  tune  still !     Now,  once  for  all,  no  more 
Of  this  suspicion — it  is  doting  folly. 

TERTSKY. 

Thou  didst  confide  in  Isolani  too  ; 
And  lo  !  he  was  the  first  that  did  desert  thee. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

It  was  but  yesterday  I  rescued  him 
From  abject  wretchedness.     Let  that  go  by, 

1  never  reckoned  yet  on  gratitude. 

And  wherein  doth  he  wrong  in  going  from  me? 

He  follows  still  the  god  whom  all  his  life 

He  has  worshipped  at  the  gaming  table.     With 

My  fortune,  and  my  seeming  destiny, 

He  made  the  bond,  and  broke  it  not  with  me. 

I  am  but  the  ship  in  which  his  hopes  were  stowed, 

And  with  the  which  well-pleased  and  confident 

He  traversed  the  open  sea  ;  now  he  beholds  it 

In  imminent  jeopardy  among  the  coast-rocks, 


574  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

And  hurries  to  preserve  his  wares.     As  light 
As  the  free  bird  from  the  hospitable  twig 
Where  it  had  nested,  he  flies  off  from  me  : 
No  human  tie  is  snapped  betwixt  us  two. 
Yea,  he  deserves  to  find  himself  deceived, 
Who  seeks  a  heart  in  the  unthinking  man. 
Like  shadows  on  a  stream,  the  forms  of  life 
Impress  their  characters  on  the  smooth  forehead, 
Naught  sinks  into  the  bosom's  silent  depth: 
Quick  sensibility  of  pain  and  pleasure 
Moves  the  light  fluids  lightly  ;  but  no  soul 
Warmeth  the  inner  frame. 

TERTSKY. 

Yet,  would  I  rather 
Trust  the  smooth  brow  than  that  deep-furrow'd  one. 


SCENE  VIII. 

WALLBNSTEIN,  TERTSKY,  ILLO,  who  enters  agitated  with  rage. 

ILLO. 
Treason  and  mutiny ! 

TERTSKY. 
And  what  further  now  ? 

ILLO. 

Tiefenbach's  soldiers,  when  I  gave  the  orders 
To  go  off  guard — Mutinous  villains  ! 

TERTSKY. 

Well? 

WALLENSTEIN. 
What  followed  ? 

ILLO. 
They  refused  obedience  to  them* 

TERTSKY. 
Fire  on  them  instantly  I     Give  out  the  order. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
Gently  1     What  cause  did  they  assign  ? 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  575 

ILLO. 

No  other, 

They  said,  had  right  to  issue  orders  but 
Lieutenant-General  Piccolomini. 

WALLENSTEIN.  (in  a  convulsion  of  agony.) 
What  ?     How  is  that  ? 

ILLO. 

He  takes  that  office  on  him  by  commission, 
Under  sign-manual  of  the  Emperor. 

TERTSKY. 
From  th'  Emperor — hear'st  thou,  Duke  ? 

ILLO. 

At  his  incitement. 
The  Generals  made  that  stealthy  flight — 

TERTSKY. 

Duke  !  hear'st  thou  ? 
ILLO. 

Caraffa,  too,  and  Montecuculi, 
Are  missing,  with  six  other  Generals, 
All  whom  he  had  induced  to  follow  him. 
This  plot  he  has  long  had  in  writing  by  him 
From  the  Empercr  ;  but  'twas  finally  concluded, 
With  all  the  detail  of  the  operation, 
Some  days  ago  with  the  Envoy  Questenberg. 

[Wallenstein  sinks  down  into  a  chair  and  covers  his  face. 

TERTSKY. 
O  hadst  thou  but  believed  me  ! 

SCENE   IX. 
To  them  enter  the  COUNTESS. 

COUNTESS. 

This  suspense, 

This  horrid  fear — I  can  no  longer  bear  it. 
I   For  Heaven's  sake,  tell  me,  what  has  taken  place. 

ILLO. 
I  The  regiments  are  all  falling  off  from  us. 


576 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


TERTSKY. 
Octavio  Piccolomini  is  a  traitor. 

COUNTESS. 
O  my  foreboding !  [rushes  out  of  the  room. 

TERTSKY. 

Hadst  thou  but  believed  me  I 
Now  seest  thou  how  the  stars  have  lied  to  thee. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The  stars  lie  not ;  but  we  have  here  a  work 
Wrought  counter  to  the  stars  and  destiny. 
The  science  is  still  honest :  this  false  heart 
Forces  a  lie  on  the  truth-telling  heaven. 
On  a  divine  law  divination  rests  ; 
Where  Nature  deviates  from  that  law,  and  stumbles 
Out  of  her  limits,  there  all  science  errs. 
True,  I  did  not  suspect !     Were  it  superstition 
Never  by  such  suspicion  t'  have  affronted 
The  human  form,  O  may  that  time  ne'er  come 
In  which  I  shame  me  of  th'  infirmity. 
The  wildest  savage  drinks  not  with  the  victim, 
In  whose  breast  he  means  .to  plunge  the  sword. 
This,  this,  Octavio,  was  no  hero's  deed  : 
'Twas  not  thy  prudence  that  did  conquer  mine  j 
A  bad  heart  triumphed  o'er  an  honest  one. 
No  shield  received  the  assassin  stroke  :  thou  plungest 
Thy  weapon  on  an  unprotected  breast — 
Against  such  weapons  I  ain  but  a  child. 


SCENE  X. 

To  these  enter  BUTLER. 

TERTSKY.  (meeting  him.) 
0  look  there  !     Butler !    Here  we've  still  a  friend  I 

WALLENSTEIN.  (meets  him  with  outspread  arms,  and  embraces 

him  with  warmth.) 

Come  to  my  heart,  old  comrade  !     Not  the  sun 
Looks  out  upon  us  more  revivingly 
In  the  earliest  month  of  spring, 
Than  a  friend's  countenance  in  such  an  hour. 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  577 

BUTLER. 
My  General !  I  come — 

WALLENSTEIN.  (leaning  on  Butler's  shoulder.) 

Know'st  thou  already  ? 

That  old  man  has  betrayed  me  to  the  Emperor. 
What  say'st  thou  ?     Thirty  years  have  we  together 
Lived  out,  and  held  out,  sharing  joy  and  hardship. 
We  have  slept  in  one  camp-bed,  drunk  from  one  glass, 
One  morsel  shared  !     I  leaned  myself  on  Mm, 
As  now  I  lean  me  on  thy  faithful  shoulder, 
And  now,  in  the  very  moment  when,  all  love, 
All  confidence,  my  bosom  beat  to  his, 
He  sees  and  takes  the  advantage,  stabs  the  knife 
Slowly  into  my  heart.  [he  hides  his  face  in  Butte/ 's  breast. 

BUTLER. 

Forget  the  false  one. 
What  is  your  present  purpose  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Well  remembered  I 

Courage,  my  soul !     I  am  still  rich  in  friends, 
Still  loved  by  destiny  ;  for  in  the  moment, 
That  it  unmasks  the  plotting  hypocrite, 
It  sends  and  proves  to  me  one  faithful  heart. 
Of  the  hypocrite  no  more !     Think  not,  his  loss 
Was  that  which  struck  the  pang  :     O  no  !  his  treason 
Is  that  which  strikes  this  pang  !     No  more  of  him  ! 
Dear  to  my  heart,  and  honored  were  they  both. 
And  the  young  man — yes — he  did  truly  love  me, 
He — he — has  not  deceived  me.     But  enough, 
Enough  of  this — Swift  counsel  now  beseems  us, 
The  courier,  whom  Count  Kinsky  sent  from  Prague, 
I  expect  him  every  moment :  and  whatever 
He  may  bring  with  him,  we  must  take  good  care 
To  keep  it  from  the  mutineers.     Quick,  then  ! 
Despatch  some  messenger  you  can  rely  on 
To  meet  him,  and  conduct  him  to  me.  \Illo  is  going, 

BUTLER,  (detaining  him.} 
My  General,  whom  expect  you  then  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The  courier 
Who  brings  me  word  of  the  event  at  Prague. 

BUTLER,  (hesitating.) 
Hern! 


57* 


COLERIDGE'S  PGEMS. 


WALLENSTEIN.  . 

And  what  now  ? 

BUTLER. 

You  do  not  know  it  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Well* 
BUTLER. 
From  what  that  larum  in  the  camp  arose  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 
From  what  ? 

BUTLER. 
courier— 


WALLENSTEIN.  (with  eager  expectation.) 
Well? 

BUTLER. 

Is  already  here. 

TERTSKY  and  ILLO.  (at  the  same  time.) 
Already  here  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 
My  courier  ? 

BUTLER. 
For  some  hours. 


And  I  not  know  it  ? 
In  custody. 


WALLENSTEIN. 

BUTLER. 
The  sentinels  detain  him 


ILLO.  (stamping  with  his  foot.) 
Damnation ! 

BUTLER. 

And  his  letter 

ffas  broken  open,  and  is  circulated 
Through  the  whole  camp. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
You  know  what  it  contains  ? 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEItf.  579 

BUTLER. 
Question  me  not ! 

TERTSKT. 
Illo  !  alas  for  us ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Hide  nothing  from  me — I  can  hear  the  worst. 
Prague  then  is  lost.     It  is.     Confess  it  freely. 

BUTLER. 

Yes  !  Prague  is  lost.     And  all  the  several  regiments 
At  Budweiss,  Tabor,  Braunau,  Konigmgratz, 
At  Brun,  and  Znaym,  have  forsaken  you, 
And  ta'en  the  oaths  of  fealty  anew 
To  the  Emperor.     Yourself,  with  Kinsky,  Tertsky, 
And  Illo,  have  been  sentenced. 

[Tertsky  and  Illo  express  alarm  and  fury.     Wallenstein 
remains  firm  and  collected. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

'Tis  decided ! 

'Tis  well !  I  have  received  a  sudden  cure 
From  all  the  pangs  of  doubt :  with  steady  stream 
Once  more  my  life-blood  flows  !     My  soul's  secure ! 
In  the  night  only  Friedland's  stars  can  beam. 
Ling'ririg,  irresolute,  with  fitful  fears 
I  drew  the  sword — 'twas  with  an  inward  strife, 
While  yet  the  choice  was  mine.     The  murd'rous  knife 
Is  lifted  for  my  heart !     Doubt  disappears  ! 
I  fight  now  for  my  head  and  for  my  life. 

[Exit  Wallenstein,  the  others  follow  him* 


SCENE  XI. 

COUNTESS  TERTSKY  enters  from  a  side  room. 

COUNTESS. 
I  can  endure  no  longer.    No  !  [looks  around  her 

Where  are  they  ? 

No  one  is  here.     They  leave  me  all  alone, 
Alone  in  this  sore  anguish  of  suspense. 
And  I  must  wear  the  outward  show  of  calmness 
Before  my  sister,  and  shut  in  within  me 
The  pangs  and  agonies  of  my  crowded  bosom. 


580  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

It  is  not  to  be  borne. — If  all  should  fail ; 

If — if  he  must  go  over  to  the  Swedes, 

An  empty-handed  fugitive,  and  not 

As  an  ally,  a  covenanted  equal, 

A  proud  commander  with  his  army  following  ; 

If  we  must  wander  on  from  land  to  land, 

Like  the  Count  Palatine,  of  fallen  greatness 

An  ignominious  monument — But  no  ! 

That  day  I  will  not  see  !     And  could  himself 

Endure  to  sink  so  low,  I  would  not  bear 

To  see  him  so  low  sunken. 

SCENE  XII. 

COUNTESS,  DUCHESS,  THEKLA. 
THEKLA.  (endeavoring  to  hold  back  the  Duchess.) 
Dear  mother,  do  stay  here ! 

DUCHESS. 

No  !     Here  is  yet 

Some  frightful  mystery  that  is  hidden  from  me. 
Why  does  my  sister  shun  me?     Don't  I  see  her 
Pull  of  suspense  and  anguish  roam  about 
From  room  to  room  ? — Art  thou  not  full  of  terror  ? 
And  what  import  these  silent  nods  and  gestures 
Which  stealth  wise  thou  exchangest  with  her  ? 

THEKLA. 

Nothing 
Nothing,  dear  mother ! 

DUCHESS,  (to  the  Countess.) 
Sister,  I  will  know. 

COUNTESS. 

What  boots  it  now  to  hide  it  from  her  ?    Sooner 
Or  later  she  must  learn  to  hear  and  bear  it. 
'Tis  not  the  time  now  to  indulge  infirmity ; 
Courage  beseems  us  now,  a  heart  collect, 
And  exercise  and  previous  discipline 
Of  fortitude.     One  word,  and  over  with  it  I 
Sister,  you  are  deluded.     You  believe, 
The  Duke  has  been  deposed — The  Duke  is  not 

Deposed — he  is 

THEKLA.  (going  to  the  Countess.) 

What  ?  do  you  wish  to  kill  her? 


THE  DEA  TH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  58  ' 

COUNTESS. 
The  Duke  is 

THEKLA.  {throwing  her  arms  around  her  mother.) 

O  stand  firm  !  stand  firm,  my  mother  ! 

COUNTESS. 

Revolted  is  the  Duke,  he  is  preparing 
To  join  the  enemy  ;  the  army  leave  him, 
And  all  has  failed. 

[During  these  words  the  Duchess  totters,  and  falls  in  a  faint- 
ing fit  into  the  arms  of  her  daughter.  While  Thekla  is 
calling  for  help,  the  curtain  drops. 


ACT  II. 

Scene — A  spacious  room  in  the  Duke  of  Friedland's  palace. 
SCENE  I. 

WALLENSTEIN.  (in  armor.) 

Thou  hast  gained  thy  point,  Octavio  !    Once  more  am  I 
Almost  as  friendless  as  at  Regenspurg  ; 
There  I  had  nothing  left  me,  but  myself — 
But  what  one  man  can  do,  you  have  now  experience. 
The  twigs  have  you  hewed  off,  and  here  I  stand 
A  leafless  trunk.     But  in  the  sap  within 
Lives  the  creating  power,  and  a  new  world 
May  sprout  forth  from  it.     Once  already  have  I 
Proved  myself  worth  an  army  to  you — I  alone  ! 
Before  the  Swedish  strength  your  troops  had  melted  ; 
Beside  the  Lech  sank  Tilly,  your  last  hope  ; 
Into  Bavaria,  like  a  winter  torrent, 
Did  that  Gustavus  pour,  and  at  Vienna 
In  his  own  palace  did  the  Emperor  tremble. 
Soldiers  were  scarce,  for  still  the  multitude 
Follow  the  luck  :  all  eyes  were  turned  on  me, 
Their  helper  in  distress  :  the  Emperor's  pride 
Bowed  itself  down  before  the  man  he  had  injured, 
'Twas  I  must  rise,  and  with  creative  word 
Assemble  forces  in  the  desolate  camps. 


582  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

I  did  it.     Like  a  god  of  war,  my  name 

Went  thro'  the  world.     The  drum  was  beat — and,  lo  \ 

The  plough,  the  workshop  is  forsaken,  all 

Swarm  to  the  old  familiar,  long-loved  banners  ; 

And  as  the  wood-choir  rich  in  melody 

Assemble  quick  around  the  bird  of  wonder, 

When  first  his  throat  swells  with  his  magic  song, 

So  did  the  warlike  youth  of  Germany 

Crowd  in,  around  the  image  of  my  eagle. 

I  feel  myself  the  being  that  I  was. 

It  is  the  soul  that  builds  itself  a  body  ; 

And  Friedland's  camp  will  not  remain  unfilled. 

Lead  then  your  thousands  out  to  meet  me — true  1 

They  are  accustomed  under  me  to  conquer, 

But  not  against  me.     If  the  head  and  limbs 

Separate  from  each  other,  'twill  be  soon 

Made  manifest,  in  which  the  soul  abode. 

[Illo  and  Tertsky 

Courage,  friends  !     Courage  !     We  are  still  un vanquished  ; 
I  feel  my  footing  firm  ;  five  regiments,  Tertsky, 
Are  still  our  own,  and  Butler's  gallant  troops  ; 
And  a  host  of  sixteen  thousand  Swedes  to-morrow. 
I  was  not  stronger,  when  nine  years  ago 
I  inarched  forth,  with  glad  heart  and  high  of  hope. 
To  conquer  Germany  for  the  Emperor. 

SCENE  II. 

WALLENSTEIN  ILLO,  TERTSKY.    (To  them  enter  NEUMANN,  who 
leads  TERTSKY  aside,  and  talks  with  him.) 

TERTSKY. 
What  do  they  want  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 
What  now  ? 

TERTSKY. 

Ten  Cuirassiers. 

From  Pappenheim  request  leave  to  address  you 
In  the  name  of  the  regiment. 

WALLENSTEIN.  (hastily,  to  Neumann.) 
Let  them  enter. 

[Exit  Neumann* 
This 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  5«3 

May  end  in  something  — Mark  you.     They  are  still 
Doubtful,  and  may  be  won. 


SCENE  III. 

WALLENSTEIN,  TERTSKY,  ILLO,  TEN  CUIRASSIERS  (led  by  an 
ANSPESSADE,*  march  up  and  arrange  themselves,  after  the 
word  of  command,  in  one  front  before  the  DUKE,  and  make 
their  obeisances.  He  takes  his  hat  off,  and  immediately  covers 
himself  again.} 

ANSPESSADE. 
Halt !  Front !  Present ! 
WALLENSTEIN.  (after  he  has  run  through  them  with  his  eye,  to 

the  Anspessade.) 

I  know  thee  well.  Thou  art  out  of  Briiggin  in  Flanders  :  Thy 
name  is  Mercy. 

ANSPESSADE. 
Henry  Mercy. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Thou  wert  cut  off  on  the  march,  surrounded  by  the  Hessians, 
and  didst  fight  thy  way  with  a  hundred  and  eighty  men  through 
their  thousand. 

ANSPESSADE. 
'Twas  even  so,  General ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 
What  reward  hast  thou  for  this  gallant  exploit  ? 

ANSPESSADE. 
That  which  I  asked  for  :  the  honor  to  serve  in  this  corps. 

WALLENSTEIN.    (turning  to  a  second.) 

Thou  wert  among  the  volunteers  that  seized  and  made  booty 
of  the  Swedish  battery  at  Altenburg. 

SECOND  CUIRASSIER. 
Yes,  General  I 

WALLENSTEIN. 

I  forget  no  one  with  whom  I  have  exchanged  words,  (a  pause.) 
Who  sends  you  ? 

*  Anspessade,  in  German,  Gefreiter,  a  soldier  inferior  to  a  corporal,  but  above  the 
aentinel;,.    The  German  name  implies  that  he  is  exempt  from  mounting  guard. 


584  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


Your  noble  regiment,  the  Cuirassiers  of  Piccolomini. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Why  does  not  your  colonel  deliver  in  your  request,  according 
to  the  custom  of  service  ? 

ANSPESSADE. 
Because  we  would  first  know  whom  we  serve. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
Begin  your  address. 

ANSPESSADE.  (giving  the  word  of  command.) 
Shoulder  your  arms ! 

WALLENSTEIN.  (turning  to  a  third.) 
Thy  name  is  Risbeck,  Cologne  is  thy  birth-place. 

THIRD  CUIRASSIER. 
Risbeck  of  Cologne. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

It  was  thou  that  broughtest  in  the  Swedish  colonel,  Diebald, 
prisoner,  in  the  camp  at  Nuremburg. 

THIRD  CUIRASSIER. 
It  was  not  I,  General ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Perfectly  right !     It  was  thy  elder  brother ;    thou  hadst 
younger  brother  too  :  where  did  he  stay  ? 

THIRD  CUIRASSIER. 
He  is  stationed  at  Olmutz  with  the  Imperial  army. 

WALLENSTEIN.  (to  the  Anspessade.') 
Now  then — begin. 

ANSPESSADE. 

There  came  to  hand  a  letter  from  the  Emperor 
Commanding  us 

WALLENSTEIN.  (interrupting  him.) 
Who  chose  you  ? 

ANSPESSADE. 

Even-  compact 
Drew  its  own  man  by  lot. 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  585 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Now  !  to  the  business. 

ANSPESSADE. 

There  came  to  hand  a  letter  from  the  Emperor 
Commanding  us  collectively,  from  thee 
All  duties  of  obedience  to  withdraw, 
Because  thou  wert  an  enemy  and  traitor. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
And  what  did  you  determine  ? 

ANSPKSSADE. 

All  our  comrades 

At  Brannau,  Budweiss,  Prague,  and  Olmutz,  have 
Obeyed  already,  and  the  regiments  here, 
Tiefenbach  and  Toscana,  instantly 
Did  follow  their  example.     But — but  we 
Do  not  believe  that  thou  art  an  enemy 
And  traitor  to  thy  country,  hold  it  merely 
For  lie  and  trick,  and  a  trumped  up  Spanish  story ! 

[With  warmth 

Thyself  shalt  tell  us  what  thy  purpose  is, 
For  we  have  found  thee  still  sincere  and  true  : 
No  mouth  shall  interpose  itself  betwixt 
The  gallant  General  and  the  gallant  troops. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
Therein  I  recognize  rny  Pappenheimers. 

ANSPESSADE. 

And  this  proposal  makes  thy  regiment  to  thee : 
Is  it  thy  purpose  merely  to  preserve 
In  thy  own  hands  this  military  sceptre, 
Which  so  becomes  thee,  which  the  Emperor 
Made  over  to  thee  by  a  covenant ; 
Is  it  thy  purpose  merely  to  remain 
Supreme  commander  of  the  Austrian  armies  ; 
We  will  stand  by  thee,  General !  and  guarantee 
Thy  honest  rights  against  all  opposition. 
And  should  it  chance,  that  all  the  other  regiments 
Turn  from  thee,  by  ourselves  will  we  stand  forth 
Thy  faithful  soldiers,  and,  as  is  our  duty, 
Far  rather  let  ourselves  be  cut  to  pieces, 
Than  suffer  thee  to  fall.     But  if  it  be 
As  the  Emperor's  letter  says,  if  it  be  true, 


586 


COLERIDGE 'S  POEMS. 


That  thou  in  trait'rous  wise  wilt  lead  us  over 
To  the  enemy,  which  God  in  heaven  forbid  ! 
Then  we  too  will  forsake  thee,  and  obey 

That  letter 

WALLENSTEIN. 
Hear  me,  children  ! 

ANSPESSADE. 

Yes,  or  no ! 
There  needs  no  other  answer. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Yield  attention. 

You're  men  of  sense,  examine  for  yourselves  ; 
Ye  think,  and  do  not  follow  with  the  herd  : 
And  therefore  have  I  always  shown  you  honor 
Above  all  others  ;  suffered  you  to  reason  ; 
Have  treated  you  as  free  men,  and  my  orders 
Were  but  the  echoes  of  your  prior  suffrage. — 

ANSPESSADE. 

Most  fa»  and  noble  has  thy  conduct  been 
To  us,  my  General !     With  thy  confidence 
Thou  hast  honored  us,  and  shown  us  grace  and  favor 
Beyond  all  other  regiments  ;  and  thou  seest 
We  follow  not  the  common  herd.     We  will 
Stand  by  thee  faithfully.     Speak  but  one  word — 
Thy  word  shall  satisfy  us,  that  it  is  not 
A  treason  which  t)x>u  meditatest — that 
Thou  meanest  not  to  lead  the  army  over 
To  the  enemy  ;  nw  e'er  betray  thy  country. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Me,  me,  are  they  t straying.     Th'  Emperor 
Hath  sacrificed  u*e  to  my  enemies ; 
And  I  must  fall,  unless  my  gallant  troops 
Will  rescue  me.     see  !  I  confide  in  you. 
And  be  your  hearts  my  stronghold  !     At  this  breast 
The  aim  is  taken,  at  this  hoary  head. 
This  is  your  Spanish  gratitude,  this  is  our 
Requital  for  that  murderous  fight  at  Liitzen! 
For  this  we  threw  the  naked  breast  against 
The  halbert,  made  for  this  the  frozen  earth 
Our  bed,  and  the  hard  stone  our  pillow  !  never  stream 
Too  rapid  for  us,  no  wood  too  impervious  ; 
With  cheerful  spirit  we  pursued  that  Mansfield 


THE  DEA  TH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  587 


Through  all  the  turns  and  windings  of  his  flight ; 
Yea,  our  whole  life  was  but  one  restless  march  \ 
And  homeless,  as  the  stirring  wind,  we  travelled 
O'er  the  war-wasted  earth.     And  now,  even  now, 
That  we  have  well-nigh  finished  the  hard  toil, 
The  unthankful,  the  curse-laden  toil  of  weapons, 
With  faithful  indefatigable  arm 
Have  rolled  the  heavy  war-load  up  the  hill, 
Behold  !  this  boy  of  the  Emperor's  bears  away 
The  honors  of  the  peace,  an  easy  prize  ! 
He'll  wave,  forsooth,  into  his  flaxen  locks 
The  olive  branch,  the  hard-earned  ornament 
Of  this  gray  head,  grown  gray  beneath  the  helmet. 

ANSPESSADE. 

That  shall  he  not,  while  we  can  hinder  it ! 
No  one,  but  thou,  who  hast  conducted  it 
With  fame,  shall  end  this  war,  this  frightful  war ! 
Thou  led'st  us  out  into  the  bloody  field 
Of  death,  thou,  and  no  other,  shalt  conduct  us  home, 
Rejoicing  to  the  lovely  plains  of  peace — 
Shalt  share  with  us  the  fruits  of  the  long  toil. — 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What  ?    Think  you  then  at  length  in  late  old  age 
To  enjoy  the  fruits  of  toil  ?     Believe  it  not. 
Never,  no  never,  will  you  see  the  end 
Of  the  contest !  you  and  me,  and  all  of  us, 
This  war  will  swallow  up  !     War,  war,  not  peace, 
Is  Austria's  wish  ]  and  therefore,  because  I 
Endeavored  after  peace,  therefore  I  fall. 
For  what  cares  Austria  how  long  the  war 
Wears  out  the  armies  and  lays  waste  the  world  ? 
She  will  but  wax  and  grow  amid  the  ruin, 
And  still  win  new  domains. 

[The  Cuirassiers  express  agitation  by  their  gestures. 

Ye' re  moved — I  see 

A  noble  rage  flash  from  your  eyes,  ye  warriors  ! 
Oh  that  my  spirit  might  possess  you  now, 
Daring  as  once  it  led  you  to  the  battle  ! 
Ye  would  stand  by  me  with  your  veteran  arms, 
Protect  me  in  my  rights  ',  and  this  is  noble  ! 
But  think  not  that  you  can  accomplish  it, 
Your  scanty  number !  to  no  purpose  will  you 
Have  sacrificed  you  for  your  General.  [Confidentially. 

No  !  let  us  tread  securely,  seek  for  friends ; 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


The  Swedes  have  proffered  us  assistance,  let  us 
Wear  for  a  while  the  appearance  of  good  will, 
And  use  them  for  our  profit,  till  we  both 
Carry  the  fate  of  Europe  in  our  hands, 
•  And  from  our  camp  to  the  glad  jubilant  world 
Lead  peace  forth  with  the  garland  on  her  head! 

ANSPESSADE. 

'Tis  then  but  mere  appearances  which  thou 
Dost  put  on  with  the  Swede  ?    Thou'lt  not  betray 
The  Emperor  ?     Wilt  not  turn  us  into  Swedes  ? 
This  is  the  only  thing  which  we  desire 
To  learn  from  thee. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What  care  I  for  the  Swedes  ? 
I  hate  them  as  I  hate  the  pit  of  hell, 
And,  under  Providence,  I  trust  right  soon 
To  chase  them  to  their  homes  across  the  Baltic. 
My  cares  are  only  for  the  whole  :  I  have 
A  heart—  it  bleeds  within  me  for  the  miseries 
And  piteous  groaning  of  my  fellow  Germans. 
Ye  are  but  common  men,  but  yet  ye  think 
With  minds  not  common  ;  ye  appear  to  me 
Worthy  before  all  others,  that  I  whisper  ye 
A  little  word  or  two  in  confidence  ! 
See  now  !  already  for  full  fifteen  years 
The  war-torch  has  continued  burning,  yet 
No  rest,  no  pause  of  conflict.     Swede  and  German! 
Papist  and  Lutheran  !  neither  will  give  way 
To  the  other,  every  hand's  against  the  other. 
Each  one  is  party  and  no  one  a  judge. 
Where  shall  this  end  ?     Where's  he  that  will  unravel 
This  tangle,  ever  tangling  more  and  more. 
It  must  be  cut  asunder. 
I  feel  that  I  am  the  man  of  destiny, 
And  trust,  with  your  assistance,  to  accomplish  it. 


SCENE  IV. 
To  these  enter  BUTLER. 

BUTLER,  (passionately.) 
General  1  This  is  not  right ! 


TH&  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  589 


WALLENSTEIN. 

What  is  not  right  ? 
BUTLER. 
It  must  need  injure  us  with  all  honest  men. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
But  what? 

BUTLER. 

It  is  an  open  proclamation 
Of  insurrection. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
Well,  well— but  what  is  it? 

BUTLER. 

Count  Tertsky's  regiments  tear  the  Imperial  Eagle 
From  off  the  banners,  and  instead  of  it; 
Have  reared  aloft  thy  arms. 

ANSPESSADE.  (abruptly  to  the  Cuirassiers.) 
Right  about !  March ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 
Cursed  be  this  counsel,  and  accursed  who  gave  it ! 

[To  the  Cuirassiers,  who  are  retiring. 
Halt,  children,  halt.     There's  some  mistake  in  this  ! 
Hark  ! — I  will  punish  it  severely.     Stop  ! 
They  do  not  hear.     (To  Illo.)     Go  after  them,  assure  them, 
And  bring  them  back  to  me,  cost  what  it  may. 

\Illo  hurries  out. 

This  hurls  us  headlong.     Butler  !  Butler  ! 
You  are  my  evil  genius,  wherefore  must  you 
Announce  it  in  their  presence  ?     It  was  all 
In  a  fair  way.     They  were  half  won,  those  madmen. 
With  their  improvident  over-readiness — 
A  cruel  game  is  fortune  playing  with  me. 
The  zeal  of  friends  it  is  that  razes  me, 
And  not  the  hate  of  enemies. 

SCENE  V. 

To  thete  enter  the  DUCHESS,  who  rushes  into  the  chamber.  THEKLA 
and  the  COUNTESS  follow  her. 

DUCHESS. 

O  Albrecht ! 
What  hast  thou  done  ? 


590  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


WALLENSTEIN. 

And  now  comes  this  beside. 

COUNTESS. 

Forgive  me,  brother  1     It  was  not  in  my  power. 
They  know  all. 

DUCHESS. 

What  hast  thou  done  ? 

COUNTESS,  (to  Tertshy.) 
Is  there  no  hope  ?    Is  all  lost  utterly  ? 

TERTSKY. 

All  lost.     No  hope.     Prague  in  the  Emperor's  hands, 
The  soldiery  have  ta'en  their  oaths  anew. 

COUNTESS. 

That  lurking  hypocrite,  Octavio. 
Count  Max.  is  off  too  ? 

TERTSKY. 

Where  can  he  be  ?    He's 
Gone  over  to  the  Emperor  with  his  father. 

[Thekla  rushes  out  into  the  arms  of  her  mother,  hiding  her  face 
in  her  bosom. 

DUCHESS,  (infolding  her  in  her  arms.) 
Unhappy  child  !  and  more  unhappy  mother! 

WALLENSTEIN.  (aside  to  Tertsky.) 
Quick !    Let  a  carriage  stand  in  readiness 
In  the  court  behind  the  palace.     Scherfenberg 
Be  their  attendant ;  he  is  faithful  to  us  ; 
To  Egra  he'll  conduct  them,  and  we  follow 

[To  Illo  who  returns. 
Thou  hast  not  brought  them  back  ? 

ILLO. 

Hear'st  thou  the  uproar  7 
The  whole  corps  of  the  Pappenheimers  is 
Drawn  out :  the  younger  Piccolomini, 
Their  colonel,  they  require  ;  for  they  affirm, 
That  he  is  in  the  palace  here,  a  prisoner  ; 
And  if  thou  dost  not  instantly  deliver  him, 
They  will  find  means  to  free  him  with  the  sword. 

[ All  stand  amazed- 


THE  DEA  TH  OF  WA  L  L  ENS  TESAT.  5  9 1 

TERTSKY. 
What  shall  we  make  of  this  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Said  I  not  so  1 

0  rny  prophetic  heart !  he  is  still  here. 

He  has  not  betrayed  me — he  could  not  betray  me. 

1  never  doubted  it. 

COUNTESS. 

If  he  be 
Still  here,  then  all  goes  well !  for  I  know  what 

[embracing  Thekla. 
Will  keep  him  here  forever. 

TERTSKY. 

It  can't  be. 

His  father  has  betrayed  us,  is  gone  over 
To  the  Emperor — the  son  could  not  have  ventured 
To  stay  behind. 

THEKLA.  (her  eye  fixed  on  the  door.) 
There  he  is  ! 

SCENE  VI. 
To  these  enter  MAX.  PICCOLOMINI. 

MAX. 

Yes  !  here  he  is !    1  can  endure  no  longer 

To  creep  on  tiptoe  around  this  house,  and  lurk 

In  ambush  for  a  favorable  moment. 

This  loitering,  this  suspense,  exceeds  my  powers. 

[Advancing  to  Thekla,  who  has  thrown  herself  into  her  mother' 

arms. 

Turn  not  thine  eyes  away.     O  look  upon  me  ! 
Confess  it  freely  before  all.     Fear  no  one. 
Let  who  will  hear  that  we  both  love  each  other. 
Wherefore  continue  to  conceal  it  ?    Secrecy 
Is  for  the  happy — misery,  hopeless  misery, 
Needeth  no  veil !     Beneath  a  thousand  suns 
It  dares  act  openly. 

[He  observes  the  Countess  looking  on  Thekla  with  expressions  of 
triumph. 


592  COLERIDGE  'S  POEMS. 


No,  Lady  !     No. 

Expect  not,  hope  it  not.     I  am  not  come 
To  stay :  to  bid  farewell,  farewell  forever, 
For  this  I  come  !     'Tis  over  !     I  must  leave  thee  I 
Thekla,  I  must — must  leave  thee !     Yet  thy  hatred 
Let  me  not  take  with  me.     I  pray  thee,  grant  me 
One  look  of  sympathy,  only  one  look. 
Say  that  thou  dost  not  hate  me.     Say  it  to  me,  Thekla  ! 

[Grasps  her  hand. 

0  God  !  I  cannot  leave  this  spot — I  cannot. 
Cannot  let  go  this  hand.     O  tell  me,  Thekla  ! 
That  thou  dost  suffer  with  me,  art  convinced 
That  I  can  not  act  otherwise. 

[Thekla,  avoiding  his  look,  points  with  her  hand  to  her  father. 
Max.  turns  round  to  the  Duke,  whom  he  had  not  till  then  per- 
ceived. 
Thou  here  ?     It  was  not  thou,  whom  here  I  sought. 

1  trusted  never  more  to  have  beheld  thee. 
My  business  is  with  her  alone.     Here  will  I 
Receive  a  full  acquittal  from  this  heart — 
For  any  other  I'm  no  more  concerned. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Think'st  thou  that,  fool-like,  I  shall  let  thee  go, 

And  act  the  mock-magnanimous  with  thee  ? 

Thy  father  is  become  a  villain  to  me  ; 

I  hold  thee  for  his  son,  and  nothing  more  ; 

Nor  to  no  purpose  shalt  thou  have  been  given 

Into  my  power.     Think  not,  that  I  will  honor 

That  ancient  love,  which  so  remorselessly 

He  mangled.     They  are  now  past  by,  those  hours 

Of  friendship  and  forgiveness.     Hate  and  vengeance 

Succeed — 'tis  now  their  turn — I,  too,  can  throw 

All  feelings  of  the  man  aside — can  prove 

Myself  as  much  a  monster  as  thy  father  I 

MAX.  (calmly.) 

Thou  wilt  proceed  with  me  as  thou  hast  power. 
Thou  know'st,  I  neither  brave  nor  fear  thy  rage. 
What  has  detained  me  here,  that,  too,  thou  know'st. 

[Taking  Thekla  by  the  hand. 

See,  Duke  !     All — all  would  I  have  owed  to  thee, 
Would  have  received  from  thy  paternal  hand 
The  lot  of  blessed  spirits.     This  hast  thou 
Laid  waste  forever — that  concerns  not  thee. 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  593 

Indifferent  thou  tramplest  in  the  dust 

Their  happiness,  who  most  are  thine.     The  god 

Whom  thou  dost  serve,  is  no  benignant  deity. 

Like  as  the  blind,  irreconcilable, 

Fierce  element,  incapable  of  compact, 

Thy  heart's  wild  impulse  only  dost  thou  follow. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Thou  art  describing  thy  own  father's  heart. 

The  adder !    O,  the  charms  of  hell  o'erpowered  me.  • 

He  dwelt  within  me,  to  my  inmost  soul 

Still  to  and  fro  he  passed,  suspected  never  ! 

On  the  wide  ocean,  in  the  starry  heaven, 

Did  mine  eyes  seek  the  enemy,  whom  I 

In  my  heart's  heart  had  folded  !     Had  I  been 

To  Ferdinand  what  Octavio  was  to  me, 

War  had  I  ne'er  denounced  against  him.     No, 

I  never  could  have  don,a  it.     The  Emp'ror  was 

My  austere  master  only,  not  my  friend. 

There  was  already  war  'twixt  him  and  me, 

When  he  delivered  the  commander's  staff 

Into  my  hands  j  for  there's  a  natural, 

Unceasing  war  'twixt  cunning  and  suspicion  ; 

Peace  exists  only  betwixt  confidence 

And  faith.     Who  poisons  confidence,  he  murders 

The  future  generations. 

MAX. 

I  will  not 

Defend  my  father.     Woe  is  me,  I  cannot ! 
Hard  deeds  and  luckless  have  ta'en  place  ;  one  crime. 
Drags  after  it  the  other  in  close  link. 
But  we  are  innocent :  how  have  we  fallen 
Into  this  circle  of  mishap  and  guilt  ? 
To  whom  have  we  been  faithless  ?     Wherefore  must 
The  evil  deeds  and  guilt  reciprocal 
Of  our  two  fathers,  twine  like  serpents  round  usl 

Why  must  our  fathers' 
Unconquerable  hate  rend  us  asunder, 
Who  love  each  other  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Max.,  remain  with  me. 

Go  you  not  from  me,  Max.  I     Hark  !     I  will  tell  thee 
How  when  at,  Prague,  our  winter  quarters,  thou 
Wert  brought  into  my  tent  a  tender  boy, 
"Not  yet  accustomed  to  the  German  winters  ! 

38 


COLERIDGE  'S  POEMS. 


Thy  hand  was  frozen  to  the  heavy  colors  ; 

Thou  would'st  not  let  them  go  — 

At  that  time  did  I  take  thee  in  my  arms, 

And  with  my  mantle  did  I  cover  thee  : 

I  was  thy  nurse,  no  woman  could  have  been 

A  kinder  to  thee  !     I  was  not  ashamed 

To  do  for  thee  all  little  offices, 

However  strange  to  me  ;  I  tended  thee 

Till  life  returned  ;  and  when  thine  eyes  first  opened, 

I  had  thee  in  my  arms.     Since  then,  when  have  I 

Altered  my  feelings  toward  thee  ?    Many  thousands 

Have  I  made  rich,  presented  them  with  lands  ; 

Rewarded  them  with  dignities  and  honors  j 

Thee  have  I  loved  ;  my  heart,  uiy  self,  I  gave 

To  thee  !     They  all  were  aliens  :  Thou  wert 

Our  child  and  inmate.*    Max.  !  thou  canst  not  leave  me  ! 

It  cannot  be  :  I  may  not,  will  not  think 

That  Max.  can  leave  me. 

MAX. 

O  my  God  ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

I  have 

Held  and  sustained  thee  from  thy  tottering  childhood. 
What  holy  bond  is  there  of  natural  love, 
What  human  tie,  that  does  not  knit  thee  to  me  ? 
I  love  thee,  Max.  !     What  did  thy  father  for  thee, 
Which  I  too  have  not  done  to  the  height  of  duty  ? 
Go  hence,  forsake  me,  serve  thy  Emperor  ; 
He  will  reward  thee  with  a  pretty  chain 
Of  gold,  with  his  lamb's  fleece  will  he  reward  thee  ; 
For  that  the  friend,  the  father  of  thy  youth, 
For  that  the  holiest  feeling  of  humanity, 
Was  nothing  worth  to  thee. 

MAX. 

O  God  !    How  can  I 

Do  otherwise  ?    Am  1  not  forced  to  do  it  ? 
My  oath—  iny  duty—  honor— 

WALLENSTEIN. 

How  ?    Thy  duty  ? 
Duty  to  whom  ?    Who  art  thou  ?     Max.  !  bethink  thee 


*  This  is  a  poor  and  inadequate  translation  of  the  affectionate  simplicity  of  tht 
•riginal— 

Sie  alle  warcn  Fremdlinge,  Du  warst  < 
Das  Kind  des  Hauses. 

Indeed  the  whole  speech  is  in  the  best  style  of  Maaaiuger.    O  si  tic  omnia ! 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  595 

What  duties  may'st  thou  have  ?    If  I  am  acting 

A  criminal  part  toward  the  Emperor, 

It  is  my  crime,  not  thine.     Dost  thou  belong 

To  thine  own  self  ?    Art  thou  thine  own  commander  ? 

Stand'st  thou,  like  me,  a  freeman  in  the  world, 

That  in  thy  actions  thou  should'st  plead  free  agency  ? 

On  me  thou'rt  planted  ;  I  am  thy  Emperor : 

To  obey  me,  to  belong  to  me,  this  is 

Thy  honor,  this  a  law  of  nature  to  thee  ! 

And  if  the  planet,  on  the  which  thou  liv'st 

And  hast  thy  dwelling,  from  its  orbit  starts, 

It  is  not  in  thy  choice,  whethe**  or  no 

Thou'lt  follow  it.     Unfelt  it  wnirls  thee  onward 

Together  with  his  ring  and  all  his  moons. 

With  little  guilt  stepp'st  thou  into  this  contest 

Thee  will  the  world  not  censure,  it  will  praise  thee, 

For  that  thou  held'st  thy  friend  more  worth  to  thee 

Than  names  and  influences  more  removed. 

For  justice  is  the  virtue  of  the  ruler, 

Affection  and  fidelity  the  subject's. 

Not  every  one  doth  it  beseem  to  question 

The  far-off  high  Arcturus.     Most  securely 

Wilt  thou  pursue  the  nearest  duty — let 

Tile  pikrt;  fix  his  eye  upon  the  pole-star. 


SCENE  VII. 

To  these  enter  NEUMANN. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
What  now  ? 

NEUMANN. 

The  Pappenheimers  are  dismounted, 
And  are  advancing  now  on  foot,  determined, 
With  sword  in  hand,  to  storm  the  house,  and  free 
The  Count,  their  colonel. 

WALLENSTEIN.  (to  Tertsky.) 

Have  the  cannon  planted. 

I  will  receive  them  with  chain-shot.  [Exit  Tertsky, 

Prescribe  to  me  with  sword  in  hand  !     Go  Neumann  ! 
'Tis  my  command  that  they  retreat  this  moment, 
And  in  their  rAnks  in  silence  wait  my  pleasure. 

[Neumann  exit.     Illo  steps  to  the  window. 


596  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

COUNTESS. 
Let  him  go,  I  entreat  thee,  let  him  go. 

ILLO.  (at  the  window.) 
Elell  and  perdition ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 
What  is  it  ? 

ILLO. 

They  scale  the  council-house,  the  roofs  uncovered. 
They  level  at  this  house  the  cannon — 

MAX. 

Madmen ! 
ILLO. 
They  are  making  preparation  now  to  fire  on  us. 

DUCHESS  and  COUNTESS. 
Merciful  Heaven ! 

MAX.  (to  Wallenstein.) 

Let  me  go  to  them  ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Not  a  step  I 

MAX.  (pointing  to  Thekla  and  the  Duchess.) 
But  their  life  !    Thine ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 
What  tidings  bring' st  thou,  Tertsky  ? 

SCENE  VIII. 

To  these  TERTSKY.  (returning.) 

TERTSKY. 

Message  and  greeting  from  our  faithful  reg'ments. 
Their  ardor  may  no  longer  be  curbed  in. 
They  entreat  permission  to  commence  th'  attack, 
And  if  thou  would'st  but  give  the  word  of  onset, 
They  could  now  charge  the  enemy  in  rear, 
Into  the  city  wedge  them,  arid  with  ease 
O'erpower  them  in  the  narrow  streets. 

ILLO. 

O  come  ? 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEiN  59? 


Let  riot  their  ardor  cool.     The  soldiery 

Of  Butler's  corps  stand  by  us  faithfully; 

We  are  the  greater  number.     Let  us  charge  them, 

Arid  finish  here  in  Pilsen  the  revolt. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What  ?  shall  this  town  become  a  field  of  slaughter 
And  brother-killing  discord,  fire-eyed, 
Be  let  loose  through  its  streets  to  roam  and  rage? 
Shall  the  decision  be  delivered  over 
To  deaf  remorseless  rage,  that  hears  no  leader  ? 
Here  is  no  room  for  battle,  only  for  butchery. 
Well,  let  it  be.     I  have  long  thought  of  it, 
So  let  it  burst  then.  [turns  to  Max. 

Well,  how  is  it  with  thee  ? 
Wilt  thou  attempt  a  heat  with  me.     Away  ! 
Thou  art  free  to  go.     Oppose  thyself  to  me, 
Front  against  front,  and  lead  them  to  the  battle ; 
Thou'rt  skill 'd  in  war,  thou  hast  learned  somewhat  under  me ; 
I  need  not  be  ashamed  of  my  opponent, 
Arid  never  hadst  thou  fairer  opportunity 
To  pay  me  for  thy  schooling. 

COUNTESS. 

Is  it  then, 

Can  I  have  come  to  this  ? — What !  cousin,  cousin ! 
Have  you  the  heart  ? 

MAX. 

The  regiments  that  are  trusted  to  my  care 

1  have  pledged  my  troth  to  bring  away  from  Pilsen 

True  to  the  Emperor,  and  this  promise  will  I 

Make  good,  or  perish.     More  than  this  no  duty 

Requires  of  me.     I  will  not  fight  against  thee, 

Unless  compelled  ;  for  though  an  enemy, 

Thy  head  is  holy  to  me  still. 

\Two  reports  of  cannon  ;  Illo  and  Tertsky  hurry  to  the  window 

WALLENSTEIN. 
What's  that  ? 

TERTSKT. 
He  falls. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Falls!     Who? 


598  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


ILLO. 

Tiefenback's  corps 
Discharged  the  ordnance. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
Upon  whom  ? 

ILLO. 

On  Neumann. 
Your  messenger. 

WALLENSTEIN.  (starting  up.} 

Ha !     Death  and  hell !     I  will— 

TERTSKY. 
Expose  thyself  to  their  blind  frenzy  ? 

* 

DUCHESS  and  COUNTESS. 

No! 
For  God's  sake,  No  ! 

ILLO. 
Not  yet,  my  General  1 

COUNTESS. 
O,  hold  him !  hold  him  ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 
Leave  me 

MAX. 

Do  it  not ; 

Not  yet  I     This  rash  and  bloody  deed  has  thrown  them 
Into  a  frenzy-fit — allow  them  time 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Away  !  too  long  already  have  I  loitered. 
They  are  emboldened  to  these  outrages, 
Beholding  not  my  face.     They  shall  behold 

My  countenance,  shall  hear  my  voice 

Are  they  not  my  troops  ?    Am  I  not  their  General 

And  their  long-feared  commander?    Let  me  see, 

Whether  indeed  they  do  no  longer  know 

That  countenance,  which  was  their  sun  in  battle  ! 

From  the  balcony  (mark  !)  I  show  myself 

To  those  rebellious  forces,  and  at  once 

Revolt  is  mounded,  and  the  high-swolri  current 

Shrinks  back  into  the  old  bed  of  obedience. 

[Exit  Wallenstein  ;  Illo,  Ttrtsky,  and  Butler  foil 


THE  DEA  TH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  599 

SCENE  IX. 

COUNTESS,  DUCHESS,  MAX.,  THEKLA. 

COUNTESS,  (to  the  Duchess.) 
Let  them  bu   see  him — there  is  hope  still,  sister. 

DUCHESS. 
Hope  !  I  have  none  ! 

*.  (who  during  the  last  scene  has  been  standing  at  a  distance 
in  a  visible  struggle  of  feelings,  advances.} 

This  can  I  not  endure. 

With  most  determined  soul  did  I  come  hither, 
My  purposed  action  seemed  unblameable 
To  my  own  conscience — and  I  must  stand  here          . 
Like  one  abhorred,  a  hard  inhuman  being  ; 
Yea,  loaded  with  the  curse  of  all  I  love ! 
Must  see  all  whom  I  love  in  this  sore  anguish, 
Whom  I,  with  one  word,  can  make  happy — O  ! 
My  heart  revolts  within  me,  and  two  voices 
Make  themselves  audible  within  my  bosom. 
My  soul's  benighted ;  I  no  longer  can 
Distinguish  the  right  track.     O,  well  arid  truly 
Didst  thou  say,  father,  I  relied  too  much 
On  my  own  heart.     My  mind  moves  to  and  fro—1* 
I  know  not  what  to  do. 

COUNTESS. 

What !  you  know  not  ? 

Does  not  your  own  heart  tell  you  ?    O  !  then  I 
Will  tell  it  you.     Your  father  is  a  traitor, 
A  frightful  traitor  to  us — he  has  plotted 
Against  our  General's  life,  has  plunged  us  all 
In  misery — and  you're  his  son  !     'Tis  yours 
To  make  the  amends — Make  you  the  son's  fidelity 
Outweigh  the  father's  treason,  that  the  name 
Of  Piccolomini  be  not  a  proverb 
Of  infamy,  a  common  form  of  cursing 
To  the  posterity  of  Wallenstein. 

MAX. 

Where  is  that  voice  of  truth  which  I  dare  follow  I1 
It  speaks  no  longer  in  my  heart.     We  all 
But  utter  what  our  passionate  wishes  dictate. 
O  that  an  angel  would  descend  from  heaven, 


600  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

And  scoop  for  me  the  right,  the  uncorrupted, 
With  a  pure  hand  from  the  pure  Fount  of  Light. 

[His  eyes  glance  on  Thekla. 
What  other  angel  seek  I  ?    To  this  heart, 
To  this  unerring  heart,  will  I  submit  it, 
Will  ask  thy  love,  which  has  the  power  to  bless 
The  happy  man  alone,  averted  ever 
From  the  disquieted  and  guilty — canst  thou 
Still  love  me,  if  I  stay  ?— Say  that  thou  canst, 
And  I  am  the  Duke's 

COUNTESS. 

Think,  niece— 
MAX 

Think  nothing,  Thekla 
Speak  what  thou  feelest, 

COUNTESS. 

Think  upon  your  father. 
MAX. 

I  did  not  question  thee  as  Friedland's  daughter. 
Thee,  the  beloved,  and  the  unerring  god 
Within  thy  heart,  I  question.     What's  at  stake  ? 
Not  whether  diadem  of  royalty 
Be  to  be  won  or  no — that  might'st  thou  think  on. 
Thy  friend,  and  his  soul's  quiet,  are  at  stake ; 
The  fortune  of  a  thousand  gallant  men, 
Who  will  all  follow  me  :  shall  I  forswear 
My  oath  and  duty  to  the  Emperor  ? 
Say,  shall  I  send  into  Octavio's  camp 
The  parricidal  ball  ?    For  when  the  ball 
Has  left  its  cannon,  and  is  on  its  flight, 
It  is  no  longer  a  dead  instrument ; 
It  lives,  a  spirit  passes  into  it, 
The  avenging  furies  seize  possession  of  it, 
And  with  sure  malice  guide  it  the  worst  way. 

THEKLA. 
O !  Max.- 

MAX.  (interrupting  her.) 
Nay,  not  precipitately  either,  Thekla. 
I  understand  thee.     To  thy  noble  heart 
The  hardest  duty  might  appear  the  highest. 
The  human,  riot  the  great  part,  would  I  act. 
Ev'n  from  my  childhood  to  this  present  hour, 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  60 1 

Think  what  the  Duke  has  done  for  me,  how  loved  nu, 

And  think,  too,  how  my  father  has  repaid  him. 

O  likewise  the  free  lovely  impulses 

Of  hospitality,  the  pious  friend's 

Faithful  attachment,  these,  too,  are  a  holy 

Religion  to  the  heart ;  arid  heavily 

The  shudderings  of  nature  do  avenge 

Themselves  on  the  barbarian  that  insults  them. 

Lay  all  upon  the  balance,  all — then  speak, 

And  let  thy  heart  decide  it. 

THEKLA. 

O,  thine  own 

Hath  long  ago  decided.     Follow  thou 
Thy  heart's  first  feeling 

COUNTESS. 

Oh !  ill-fated  woman  ! 

THEKLA. 

Is  it  possible,  that  that  can  be  the  right, 
The  which  thy  tender  heart  did  not  at  first 
Detect  and  seize  with  instant  impulse  ?    Go, 
Fulfil  thy  duty  !     I  should  ever  love  thee. 
Whate'er  thou  hadst  chosen,  thou  would'st  still  have  acted 
Noble  and  worthy  of  thee — but  repentance 
Shall  ne'er  disturb  thy  soul's  fair  peace. 

MAX. 

Then  I 
Must  leave  thee,  must  part  from  thee ! 

THEKLA. 

Being  faithful 

To  thine  own  self,  thou  art  faithful,  too,  to  me ; 
If  our  fates  part,  our  hearts  remain  united. 
A  bloody  hatred  will  divide  forever 
The  houses,  Piccolomini  and  Friedland  ; 
But  we  belong  not  to  our  houses — Go  ! 
Quick  !  quick  !  and  separate  thy  righteous  cause 
From  our  unholy  and  unblessed  one  ! 
The  curse  of  heaven  lies  upon  our  head  ; 
'Tis  dedicate  to  ruin.     Even  me 
My  father's  guilt  drags  with  it  to  perdition. 
Mourn  not  for  me  ; 
My  destiny  will  quickly  be  decided. 

[Max.  clasps  her  in  his  arms  in  extreme  emotion.     There  is 


602  COLERIDGE 'S  POEMS. 


heard  from  behind  the  Scene  a  loud,  wild,  long -continued 
cry —  Vivat  Ferdinandus,  accompanied  by  warlike  instru- 
ments. Max.  and  Thekla  remain  without  motion  in  each 
ether's  embraces. 


SCENE  X. 

To  these  enter  TERTSKT. 

COUNTESS,  (meeting  him.) 
What  meant  that  cry  ?    What  was  it  ? 

TERTSKY  . 

All  is  lost ! 

COUNTESS. 
What !  they  regarded  not  his  countenance  ? 

TERTSKY. 
'Twas  all  in  vain. 

DUCHESS. 
They  shouted  Vivat ! 

TERTSKY. 
To  the  Emperor. 

COUNTESS. 
The  traitors ! 

TERTSKY. 

Nay  !  he  was  not  once  permitted 
Ev'n  to  address  them.     Soon  as  he  began, 
With  deafening  noise  of  warlike  instruments 
They  drowned  his  words.     But  here  he  comes. 

SCENE  XL 

To  these  enter  WALLENSTEIN,  accompanied  by  ILLO  and  BUTLER, 
WALLENSTEIN.  (as  he  enters.) 

TERTSKY. 
My  General. 


THE  DBA  777  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  603 

WALLKNSTKIN. 

Let  our  regiments  hold  themselves 
In  readiness  to  march  ;  for  we  shall  leave 
Pilsen  ere  evening.  [Exit  Terisky. 

Butler  I 

BUTLER. 

Yes,  my  General. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The  governor  at  Egva  is  your  friend 
And  countryman,     Write  to  him  instantly 
By  a  post  courier.     He  must  be  advised, 
That  we  are  with  him  early  on  the  morrow. 
You  follow  us  yourself,  your  regiment  with  you. 

BUTLKR. 
It  shall  be  done,  my  General ! 

WALLKNSTEIN.  (steps  between  Max.  and  Thekla,  who  have  re- 
mained during  this  time  in  each  other's  arms.} 
Part! 

MAX. 

O  God! 

[Cuirassiers  enter  with  drawn  swords,  and  assemble  in  the 
back-ground.  At  the  .wnir  time  there  are  heard  from  below 
some  spirited  passages  out  of  the  Pappenheim  march,  which 
seem  to  address  Max. 

WALLENSTEIN.  (to  the  Cuirassiers.) 
Here  he  is,  he  is  at  liberty  :  I  keep  him 
No  longer. 

[He  turns  away,  and  stands  so  that  Max.  cannot  jmss  by  him 
nor  approach  thi  Princess. 

MAX. 

Thou  know'st  that  I  have  not  yet  learnt  to  live 
Without  thee  !  I  go  forth  into  a  desert, 
Leaving  my  all  behind  me.     O  do  not  turn 
Thine  eyes  away  from  me  !     O  once  more  show  me 
Thy  ever  dear  arid  honored  countenance. 

[Max.  attempts  to  take  his  hand,  but  is  repelled :  he  turns 

to  the  Countess. 

Is  there  no  eye  that  has  a  look  of  pity  for  me  ? 
[The    Countess    turns  away  from  him ;    he  turns  to  the 

Duchess. 
My  mother  1 


604  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


DUCHESS. 

Go  where  duty  calls  you.     Haply 
The  time  may  come,  when  you  may  prove  to  us 
A  true  friend,  a  good  angel  at  the  throne 
Of  the  Emperor. 

MAX. 

You  give  me  hope  ;  you  would  not 
Suffer  me  wholly  to  despair.     No  !    No  ! 
Mine  is  a  certain  misery — Thanks  to  Heaven 
That  offers  me  a  means  of  ending  it. 

[Tlie  military  music  begins  again.  The  stage  fills  more  and 
more  with  armed  men.  Max.  sees  Butler,  and  addresses 
him. 

And  you  here,  Colonel  Butler — and  will  you 
Not  follow  me  ?    Well,  then,  remain  more  faithful 
To  your  new  lord,  than  you  have  proved  yourself 
To  the  Emperor.     Come,  Butler,  promise  me, 
Give  me  your  hand  upon  it,  that  you'll  be 
The  guardian  of  his  life,  its  shield,  its  watchman, 
He  is  attainted,  and  his  princely  head 
Fair  booty  for  each  slave  that  trades  in  murder. 
Now  he  doth  need  the  faithful  eye  of  friendship, 
And  those  whom  here  I  see — 

[casting  suspicious  looks  on  Illo  and  Butler. 

LLLO. 

Go — seek  for  traitors 

In  Galas',  in  your  father's  quarters.     Here 
Is  only  one.     Away  !  away  !  and  free  us 
From  his  detested  sight.     Away  ! 

{Max.  attempts  once  more  to  approach  Thekla.  Wallenstein 
prevents  him.  Max.  stands  irresolute,  and  in  apparent 
anguish.  In  the  mean  time  the  stage  fills  more  and  more ; 
and  the  horns  sound  from  below,  louder  and  louder,  and 
each  time  after  a  shorter  interval. 

MAX. 

Blow,  blow  !    O  were  it  but  the  Swedish  trumpets, 
And  all  the  naked  swords,  which  I  see  here, 
Were  plunged  into  my  breast !     What  purpose  you  ? 
You  come  to  tear  me  from  this  place  !     Beware 
Ye  drive  me  not  to  desperation. — Do  it  not! 
Ye  may  repent  it !  [the  stage  is  entirely  filled  with  armed  men. 
Yet  more  !  weight  upon  weight  to  drag  me  down ! 
Think  what  ye're  doing.     Jt  is  not  well  done 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  005 

To  choose  a  man  despairing  for  your  leader ; 

You  tear  me  from  my  happiness.     Well,  then, 

I  dedicate  your  souls  to  vengeance.     Mark  ! 

For  your  own  ruin  you  have  ch  sen  me  : 

Who  goes  with  me,  must  be  prepared  to  perish. 
[He  turns  to  the  back-ground,  there  ensues  a  sudden  and 
violent  movement  among  the  Cuirassiers;  they  surround 
him,  and  carry  him  off  in  wild  tumult.  Wallenstein  re- 
mains immovable.  Thekla  sinks  into  her  mother's  arms. 
The  curtain  falls.  The  music  becomes  loud  and  over- 
powering, and  passes  into  a  complete  war-march — the 
orchestra  joins  it — and  continues  during  the  interval  be- 
tween the  second  and  third  Act, 


ACT  III, 

Scene,  the  Burgomaster's  House  at  Egra. 
SCENE    I. 

BUTLER,  (just  arrived.) 
Here  then  he  is,  by  his  destiny  conducted. 
Here,  Friedland,  and  no  farther  !     Fr  >m  Bohemia 
Thy  meteor  rose,  traversed  the  sky  awhil .?, 
And  here  upon  the  borders  of  Bohemia 
Musk  sink. 

Thou  hast  forsworn  the  ancient  c^  lors, 
Blind  man  !  yet  trustest  to  thy  ancient  f  rtunes. 
Profaner  of  the  altar  and  the  hearth, 
Against  thy  Emperor  and  fellow-citizens 
Thou  mean'st  to  wage  the  war.     Friedland,  beware— 
The  evil  spirit  of  revenge  impels  thee — 
Beware  thou,  that  revenge  destroy  thee  not. 

SCENE  II. 
BUTLER,  GORDON. 

GORDON. 
Is  it  you  ? 

How  my  heart  sinks !     The  Duke  a  fugitive  traitor  I 
His  princely  head  attainted  1    O  my  God  1 


6o6 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


BUTLER. 

You  have  received  the  letter  which  I  sent  you 
By  a  post  courier. 

GORDON. 

Yes  !  and  in  obedience  to 

Opened  the  strong-hold  to  him  without  scruple. 
For  an  imperial  letter  orders  me 
To  follow  your  commands  implicitly, 
But  yet  forgive  me  :  when  even  now  I  saw 
The  Duke  himself,  my  scruples  recommenced. 
For  truly,  not  like  an  attainted  man, 
Into  this  town  did  Friedland  make  his  entrance : 
His  wonted  majesty  beamed  from  liis  brow, 
And  calm,  as  in  the  days  when  all  was  right, 
Did  he  receive  from  rue  the  accounts  of  office, 
'Tis  said,  that  fallen  pride  learns  condescension  ; 
But,  sparing  and  with  dignity,  the  Duke 
Weighed  every  syllable  of  approbation, 
As  masters  praise  a  servant  who  has  done 
His  duty,  and  no  more. 

BUTLER. 

'Tis  all  precisely 

As  I  related  in  my  letter.     Friedland 
Has  sold  the  army  to  the  enemy, 
And  pledged  himself  to  give  up  Prague  and  Egra. 
On  this  report  the  regiments  all  forsook  him, 
The  five  excepted  that  belong  to  Tertsky, 
And  which  have  followed  him,  as  thou  hast  seen. 
The  sentence  of  attainder  is  passed  on  him, 
And  every  loyal  subject  is  required 
To  give  him  up  to  justice,  dead  or  living. 

GORDON. 

A  traitor  to  the  Emperor — such  a  noble ! 
Of  such  high  talents  !     What  is  human  greatness? 
I  often  said,  this  can't  end  happily. 
His  might,  his  greatness,  and  this  obscure  power 
Are  but  a  covered  pit-fall.     The  human  being 
May  not  be  trusted  to  self-government. 
The  clear  and  written  law,  the  deep-trod  foot-mark* 
Of  ancient  custom,  are  all  necessary 
To  keep  him  in  the  road  of  faith  and  duty. 
The  authority  intrusted  to  this  man 
Was  unexampled  and  unnatural. 


THE  DEA  TH  OF  WALLENSTEIN 


It  placed  him  on  a  level  with  his  Emperor, 

Till  the  proud  soul  unlearned  submission.     Woe  is  me  I 

I  mourn  for  him  ;  for  where  he  fell,  I  deem 

Might  none  stand  firm.     Alas  !  dear  General, 

We  in  our  lucky  mediocrity 

Have  ne'er  experienced,  cannot  calculate, 

What  dangerous  wishes  such  a  height  may  breed 

In  the  heart  of  such  a  man. 

BUTLER. 

Spare  your  laments 

Till  he  need  sympathy  ;  for  at  this  present 
He  is  still  mighty,  arid  still  formidable. 
The  Swedes  advance  to  Egra  by  forced  marches, 
And  quickly  will  the  junction  be  accomplished. 
This  must  not  be  !     The  Duke  must  never  leave 
This  strong-hold  on  free  footing  ;  for  I  have 
Pledged  life  and  honor  here  to  hold  him  pris'ner, 
And  your  assistance  'tis  on  which  I  calculate. 

GORDON. 

O  that  I  had  not  lived  to  see  this  day  ! 

From  his  hand  I  received  this  dignity, 

He  did  himself  entrust  this  strong-hold  to  me, 

Which  I  am  now  required  to  make  his  dungeon. 

We  subalterns  have  no  will  of  our  own  : 

The  free,  the  mighty  man  alone  may  listen 

To  the  fair  impulse  of  his  human  nature. 

Ah !  we  are  but  the  poor  tools  of  the  law, 

Obedience  the  sole  virtue  we  dare  aim  at. 

BUTLER. 

Nay,  let  it  not  afflict  you,  that  your  power 
Is  circumscribed.     Much  liberty,  much  error  I 
The  narrow  path  of  duty  is  securest. 

GORDON. 

And  all,  then,  have  deserted  him,  you  say  ? 
He  has  built  up  the  luck  of  many  thousands, 
For  kingly  was  his  spirit :  his  full  hand 
Was  ever  open.     Many  a  one  from  dust 

[With  a  side  glance  at  Butler 
Hath  he  selected,  from  the  very  dust 
Hath  raised  him  into  dignity  and  honor. 
And  yet  no  friend,  not  one  friend  hath  he  purchased. 
Whose  heart  beats  true  to  him  in  the  evil  hour. 


6o8 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


BUTLER. 
Here's  one  I  see. 

GORDON. 

I  have  enjoyed  from  him 
JSTo  grace  or  favor.     I  could  almost  doubt 
If  ever,  in  his  greatness,  he  once  thought  on 
An  old  friend  of  his  youth.     For  still  rny  office 
Kept  me  at  distance  from  him  ;  and  when  first 
He  to  this  citadel  appointed  me, 
He  was  sincere  and  serious  in  his  duty. 
I  do  not  then  abuse  his  confidence, 
If  I  preserve  my  fealty  in  that, 
Which  to  my  fealty  was  first  delivered. 

BUTLER. 
Say,  then,  will  you  fulfil  the  attainder  on  him  ? 

GORDON,  (pauses  reflecting — then  as  in  deep  dejection.') 

If  it  be  so — if  all  be  as  y  u  say — 
If  he've  betrayed  the  Emperor,  his  master, 
Have  sold  the  troops,  have  purposed  to  deliver 
The  strong-holds  of  the  country  to  the  enemy — 
Yea,  truly  ! — there  is  no  redemption  for  him — 
Yet  it  is  hard,  that  me  the  lot  should  destine 
To  be  the  instrument  of  his  perdition  ; 
For  we  were  pages  at  the  court  of  Bergau 
At  the  same  period ;  but  I  was  the  senior. 


I  have  heard  so 


BUTLER. 
GORDON. 


'Tis  full  thirty  years  since  then ; 
A  youth  who  scarce  had  seen  his  twentieth  year 
Was  Wallenstein,  when  ho  and  I  were  friends  : 
Yet  even  then  he  had  a  daring  soul : 
His  frame  of  mind  was  serious  and  severe 
Beyond  his  years  ;  his  dreams  were  of  great  objects. 
He  walked  amidst  us  of  a  silent  spirit, 
Communing  with  himself :  yet  I  have  known  him 
Transported  on  a  sudden  into  utterance 
Of  strange  conceptions  ,  kindling  into  splendor, 
His  soul  revealed  itself,  and  he  spake  so 
That  we  looked  round  perplexed  upon  each  other, 
Not  knowing  whether  it  were  craziness, 
Or  whether  'twere  a  god  that  spoke  in  him. 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEfN.  609 

BUTLER. 

But  was  it  where  he  fell  two  story  high, 
From  a  window-ledge,  on  which  he  had  fallen  asleep, 
And  rose  up  free  from  injury  ?     From  this  day 
(It  is  reported)  he  betrayed  clear  marks 
Of  a  distempered  fancy. 

GORDOK. 

He  became, 

.Doubtless,  more  self-enwrapt  and  melancholy ; 
He  made  himself  a  Catholic.     Marvellously 
His  marvellous  preservation  had  transformed  him. 
Thenceforth  he  held  himself  for  an  exempted 
And  privileged  being,  and,  as  if  he  were 
Incapable  of  dizziness  or  fall, 
He  ran  along  the  unsteady  rope  of  life. 
But  now  our  destinies  drove  us  asunder  : 
He  paced  with  rapid  step  the  way  of  greatness, 
Was  count,  and  prince,  duke  regent,  and  dictator, 
And  now  is  all,  all  this  too  little  for  him  ; 
He  stretches  forth  his  hands  for  a  king's  crown, 
And  plunges  in  unfathomable  ruin: 

BUTLER. 
No  more,  he  comes. 

SCENE  III. 

To  these  enter  WALLENSTEIN,  in  conversation  with  the  Bimoo 
MASTER  of  Egra. 

WALLENSTEKT. 

You  were  at  one  time  a  free  town.  I  see 
Ye  bear  the  half  eagle  in  your  city  arms. 
Why  the  half  eagle  only  ? 

BURGOMASTER. 

We  were  free, 

But  for  these  last  two  hundred  years  has  Egra 
Remained  in  pledge  to  the  Bohemian  crown  •. 
Therefore  we  bear  the  half  eagle,  the  other  half 
Being  cancelled  till  the  empire  ransom  us, 
If  ever  that  should  be. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Ye  merit  freedom. 
Only  be  firm  and  dauntless.    Lend  your  ears 


6 TO  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


To  no  designing,  whispering  court-minions 
What  may  your  imposts  be  ? 

BURGOMASTER. 

So  heavy  that 

We  totter  under  them.     The  garrison 
Lives  at  our  costs. 


LENPTEIN. 

I  win  relieve  you.     Tell  me, 
There  are  some  Protestants  among  you  still  ? 

[The  Burgomaster  hesitatett 
Yes,  yes  ;  I  know  it.     Many  lie  concealed 
Within  these  walls  —  confess  now  —  you  yourself  — 

[Fixes  his  eye  on  him.     The  Burgomaster  alarmed. 
Be  not  alarmed.     1  hate  the  Jesuits. 
Could  my  will  have  determined  it,  they  had 
Been  long  ago  expelled  the  empire.     Trust  me  — 
Mass-book  or  Bible  —  'tis  all  one  to  me. 
Of  that  the  world  has  had  sufficient  proof. 
I  built  a  church  for  the  Ref  rmed  in  Glogau 
At  my  own  instance.     Hark'e,  Burgomaster  ! 
What  is  your  name  ? 

BURGOMASTER. 

Pachhalbel,  may  it  please  you. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
Hark'e  !  - 

But  let  it  go  no  further,  what  I  now 
Disclose  to  you  in  confidence. 

[Laying  his  hand  on  the  Burgomaster's  shoulder  with  < 
Certain  solemnity. 

The  times 

Draw  near  to  their  fulfilment,  Burgomaster  ! 
The  high  will  fall,  the  low  will  be  exalted. 
flark'e  !     But  keep  it  to  yourself  !     The  end 
Approaches  of  the  Spanish  double  monarchy  — 
A  new  arrangement  is  at  ha-nd.     You  saw 
The  three  moons  that  appeared  at  once  in  the  heaven. 

BURGOMASTER. 
With  wonder  and  affright  ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Whereof  did  two 
Strangely  transform  themselves  to  bloody  daggers, 


THE  DEA  TH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  61 1 

And  only  one,  the  middle  moon,  remained 
Steady  and  clear. 

BURGOMASTER. 
We  applied  it  to  the  Turks. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The  Turks  !     That  all  ?— I  tell  you,  that  two  empires 
Will  set  in  blood,  in  the  east  and  in  the  west, 
And  Luth'ranisin  alone  remain. 

[Observing  Gordon  and  Sutler, 

I'faith, 

'Twas  a  smart  cannonading  that  we  heard 
This  evening,  as  we  journeyed  hitherward  ; 
'Twas  on  our  left  hand.  Did  you  hear  it  here? 

GORDON. 
Distinctly.  The  wind  brought  it  from  the  south. 

BUTLER 
It  seemed  to  come  from  Weiden  or  from  Neustadt. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

'Tis  likely.    That's  the  route  the  Swedes  are  taking. 
How  strong  is  the  garrison  ? 

GORDON. 

Not  quite  two  hundred 
Competent  men,  the  rest  are  invalids. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
Good !  and  how  many  in  the  vale  of  Jochim. 

GORDON. 

Two  hundred  arquebussiers  have  I  sent  thither 
To  fortify  the  posts  against  the  Swedes. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Good  I     I  commend  your  foresight.     At  the  works  too 
You  have  done  somewhat  ? 

GORDON. 

Two  additional  batterie* 
I  caused  to  be  run  up.     They  were  needless. 
The  Rhinegrave  presses  hard  upon  us,  General  I 

WALLENSTEIN. 
You  have  been  watchful  in  your  Emperor's  service. 


6 1 2  COLERIDGE 'S  POEMS. 

I  am  content  with  you.  (To  Sutler.}  Lieutenant-Colonel, 

Release  the  outposts  in  the  vale  of  Jochim 

With  all  the  stations  in  the  enemy's  route. 

(To  Gordon.)  Governor,  in  your  faithful  hands  I  leave 

My  wife,  my  daughter,  and  my  sister.     I 

Shall  make  no  stay  here,  and  wait  but  the  arrival 

Of  letters,  to  take  leave  of  you,  together 

With  all  the  regiments. 


SCENE  IV. 

To  these  enter  COUNT  TERTSKY. 

TERTSKY. 
Joy,  General ;  joy  !  I  bring  you  welcome  tidings. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
And  what  may  they  be  ? 

TERTSKY. 

There  has  been  an  engagement 
At  Neustadt ;  the  Swedes  gained  the  victory. 

WALLENSTEIJN'. 
From  whence  did  you  receive  the  intelligence  ? 

TERTSKY. 

A  countryman  from  Tirschenseil  convoyed  it. 
Soon  after  sunrise  did  the  fight  begin  I 
A  troop  of  the  Imperialists  from  Fachau 
Had  forced  their  way  into  the  Swedish  camp  ! 
The  cannonade  continued  full  two  hours  ; 
There  were  left  dead  upon  the  field  a  thousand 
Imperialists,  together  with  their  colonel ; 
Further  than  this  he  did  not  know. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

How  came 

Imperial  troops  at  Neustadt  ?     Altringer, 
But  yesterday,  stood  sixty  miles  from  there. 
Count  Galas'  force  collects  at  Frauenberg, 
And  have  not  the  full  complement.     Is  it  possible, 
That  Suys,  perchance,  had  ventured  so  far  onward  ? 
It  cannot  be. 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  613 


TERTSKY. 

We  shall  soon  know  the  whole, 
For  here  comes  Illo,  full  of  haste,  and  joyous. 

SCENE  V. 

To  these  enter  ILLO 

ILLO.  (to  Wallenstein.') 
A  courier,  Duke  I  he  wishes  to  speak  with  fchee. 

TERTSKY.  (eagerly.') 
Does  he  bring  confirmation  of  the  victory? 

WALLENSTEIN.  (at  the  same  time.'/ 
What  does  he  bring  ?    Whence  comes  he  ? 

ILLO. 

From  the  Rhinegrave, 

And  wnat  he  brings.  I  can  announce  to  you 
Beforehand.     Seven  leagues  distant  are  the  Swedes  ; 
At  Neustadt  did  Max.  Piccolomini 
Throw  himself  on  them  with  the  cavalry  ; 
A  murd'rous  fight  took  place  ;  o'erpowered  by  numbers 
The  Pappenheimers  all,  with  Max.  their  leader, 

[Wallenstein  shudders  and  turns  pale. 
Were  left  dead  on  the  field. 

WALLENSTEIN.  (after  a  pause,  in  a  low  voice.) 
Where  is  the  messenger  ?     Conduct  me  to  him. 

[Wallenstein  is  going,  when  Lady  Neubrunn  rushes  into 
the  room.  Some  servants  follow  her  and  run  across  the 
stage. 

NEUBRUNN. 
Help !  Help ! 

ILLO  and  TERTSKY.  (at  the  same  time.) 
What  now  ? 

NEUBRUNN . 

The  Princess  !— 

WALLENSTEIN  and  TERTSKY. 

Does  she  know  ft  ? 


6 1 4  COLERIDGE 'S  POEMS. 


NEUBRUNN.  (at  the  same  time  with  them.} 
She  is  dying  ! 

[hurries  off  the  stage,  and  Wallenstein  and  Tertsky  follow  her. 


SCENE  VI. 

BUTLER,  GORDON. 

GORDON. 
What's  this? 

BUTLER. 

She  ha?  lost  the  man  she  loved — 
Young  Piccolomini  who  fell  in  the  battle. 

GORDON. 
Unfortunate  lady  ! 

BUTLER. 

You  have  heard  what  Illo 
Reporteth,  that  the  Swedes  are  conquerors, 
And  inarching  hither  ward. 

GORDON. 

Too  well  I  heard  it. 

BUTLER. 

They  are  twelve  regiments  strong,  and  there  are  five 
Close  by  us  to  protect  the  Duke.     We  have 
Only  my  single  regiment;  and  the  garrison 
Is  not  two  hundred  strong. 

GORDON. 

'Tis  even  so. 

BUTLER. 

It  is  not  possible  with  such  small  force 
To  hold  in  custody  a  man  like  him. 

GORDON. 
I  grant  it. 

BUTLER. 

Soon  the  numbers  would  disarm  as, 
And  liberate  him. 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  615 

GORDON. 
It  were  to  be  feared. 

BUTLER,  (after  a  pause.) 
Know,  I  am  warranty  for  the  event ; 
With  my  head  have  I  pledged  myself  for  his, 
Must  make  my  word  good,  cost  it  what  it  will, 
And  if  alive  we  cannot  hold  him  prisoner, 
Why — death  makes  all  things  certain  1 

GORDON. 

Butler!  what? 
Do  I  understand  you  ?    Gracious  God !     You  could — 

BUTLER. 
He  must  not  live. 

GORDON. 
And  you  can  do  the  deed ! 

BUTLER. 
Either  you  or  I.    This  morning  was  his  last. 

GORDON. 
You  would  assassinate  him  ? 

BUTLER. 

'Tis  my  purpose. 

GORDON. 
Who  leans  with  his  whole  confidence  upon  you ! 

BUTLER. 
Such  is  his  evil  destiny  ! 

GORDON. 

Your  General  f 
The  sacred  person  of  your  General ! 

BUTLER. 
My  General  he  has  been. 

GORDON. 

That  'tis  only 
An  '  has  been '  washes  out  no  villany. 

And  without  judgment  passed  ? 

% 
BUTLER. 

The  execution 
Is  here  instead  of  judgment. 


bi6  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

GORDON. 

This  were  murder, 
Not  justice.    The  most  guilty  should  be  heard. 

BUTLER. 

His  guilt  is  clear,  the  Emperor  has  past  judgment, 
And  we  but  execute  his  will. 

GORDON. 

We  should  not 

Hurry  to  realize  a  bloody  sentence. 
A  word  may  be  recalled,  a  life  can  never  be. 

BUTLER. 
Despatch  in  service  pleases  sovereigns. 

GORDON. 

No  honest  man's  ambitious  to  press  forward 
To  the  hangman's  service. 

BUTLER. 

And  no  brave  man  lose* 
His  color  at  a  daring  enterprise. 

GORDON. 
A  brave  man  hazards  life,  but  not  his  conscience. 

BUTLER. 

What  then  ?    Shall  he  go  forth  anew  to  kindle 
The  unextinguishable  flame  of  war  ? 

GORDON. 
Seize  him,  and  hold  him  prisoner — do  not  kill  him  I 

BUTLER. 

Had  not  the  Emperor's  army  been  defeated, 
I  might  have  done  so— But  'tis  now  past  by. 

GORDON. 
O,  wherefore  opened  I  the  strong-hold  to  him  ? 

BUTLER. 
His  destiny,  and  not  the  place,  destroys  him. 

GORDON. 

Upon  these  ramparts,  as  beseemed  a  soldier, 
I  had  fallen,  defending  the  Emperor's  citadel ! 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALL  EN  STEIN.  617 


BUTLER. 
Yes  I  and  a  thousand  gallant  men  have  perished. 

GORDON. 

Doing  their  duty — that  adorns  the  man  ! 

But  murder's  a  black  deed,  and  nature  curses  it. 

BUTLER,  (brings  out  a  paper.) 
Here  is  the  manifesto  which  commands  us 
To  gain  possession  of  his  person.     See — 
It  is  addressed  to  you  as  well  as  me. 
Are  you  content  to  take  the  consequences, 
If  thro'  our  fault  he  escape  to  the  enemy. 

GORDON. 
I  ?— Gracious  God  ! 

BUTLER. 

Take  it  on  yourself. 
Come  of  it  what  it  may,  on  you  I  lay  it. 

GORDON. 

0  God  in  heaven ! 

BUTLER. 

Can  you  advise  aught  else 

Wherewith  to  execute  the  Emperor's  purpose  ? 
Say,  if  you  can.     For  I  desire  his  fall, 
Not  his  destruction. 

GORDON. 
Merciful  Heaven  i  what  must 

1  see  as  clear  as  you.     Yet  still  the  heart 

with  othe 

BUTLER. 

Mine  is  of  harder  stuff  !     Necessity 
In  her  rough  school  hath  steeled  me.     And  this  Illo, 
And  Tertsky  likewise,  they  must  not  survive  him. 

GORDON. 

I  feel  no  pang  for  these.     Their  own  bad  heart 
Impelled  them,  not  the  influence  of  the  stars. 
'Twas  they  who  strewed  the  seeds  of  evil  passions 
In  his  calm  breast,  and  with  officious  villany 
Watered  and  nursed  the  poisonous  plants.     May  they 
Receive  their  earnests  to  the  uttermost  mite  ! 


Within  my  bosom  beats  with  other  feelings  ! 


6l8  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

BUTLER. 

And  their  death  shall  precede  his ! 
We  meant  to  have  taken  them  alive  this  evening 
Amid  the  merry-making  of  a  feast, 
And  keep  them  prisoners  in  the  citadel. 
But  this  makes  shorter  work.    I  go  this  instant 
To  give  the  necessary  orders. 

SCENE  VII. 

To  these  enter  ILLO  and  TERTSKY. 

TERTSKY. 

Our  luck  is  on  the  turn.    To-morrow  come 
The  Swedes — twelve  thousand  gallant  warriors,  Illo  I 
Then  straightway  for  Vienna,.     Cheerily,  friend  ! 
What  1  meet  such  news  with  such  a  moody  faca  ? 

ILLO. 

It  lies  with  us  at  present  to  prescribe 
Laws,  and  take  vengeance  on  those  worthless  traitors, 
Those  skulking  cowards  that  deserted  us  ; 
One  has  already  done  his  bitter  penance, 
The  Piccolomini,  be  his  the  fate 
Of  all  who  wish  us  evil !     This  flies  sure 
To  the  old  man's  heart ;  he  has,  his  whole  life  long, 
Fretted  and  toiled  to  raise  his  ancient  house 
From  a  Count's  title  to  the  name  of  Prince ; 
And  now  must  seek  a  grave  for  his  only  son. 

BUTLER. 

'Twas  pity  tho' !  a  youth  of  such  heroic 
And  gentle  temperament !     The  Duke  himself, 
'Twas  easily  seen,  how  near  it  went  to  his  heart. 

ILLO. 

Hark'e,  old  friend  !     That  is  the  very  point 
That  never  pleased  me  in  our  General — 
He  ever  gave  the  preference  to  the  Italians, 
Yea,  at  this  very  moment,  by  my  soul  1 
He'd  gladly  see  us  all  dead  ten  times  over, 
Could  he  thereby  recall  his  friend  to  life. 

TERTSKY. 

Hush,  hush  !    Let  the  dead  rest !     This  evening's  business 
Is,  who  can  fairly  drink  the  other  down — 


THE  DEATff  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  619 

Your  regiment,  Illo,  gives  the  entertainment. 
Come  !  we  will  keep  a  merry  carnival — 
The  night  for  once  be  day,  and  'mid  full  glasses 
Will  we  expect  the  Swedish  avantgarde. 

ILLO. 

Yes,  let  us  be  of  good  cheer  for  to-day, 
For  there's  hot  work  before  us,  friends  !     This  sword 
Shall  have  no  rest,  till  it  be  bathed  to  the  hilt 
In  Austrian  blood. 

GORDON. 

Shame,  shame  !  what  talk  is  this, 
My  Lord  Field-Marshal  ?     Wherefore  foam  you  so 
Against  your  Emperor  r 

BUTLER. 

Hope  not  too  much 

From  this  first  victory.     Bethink  you,  sirs  1 
How  rapidly  the  wheel  of  fortune  turns. 
The  Emperor  still  is  formidably  strong. 

ILLO. 

The  Emperor  has  soldiers,  no  commander, 
For  this  king  Ferdinand  of  Hungary 
Is  but  a  tyro.     Galas  ?     He's  no  luck. 
And  was  of  old  the  ruiner  of  armies. 
And  then  this  viper,  this  Octavio, 
Is  excellent  at  stabbing  in  the  back, 
But  ne'er  meets  Friedland  in  the  open  field. 

TERTSKY. 

Trust  me,  my  friends,  it  cannot  but  succeed  ; 
Fortune,  we  know,  can  ne'er  forsake  the  Duke! 
And  only  under  Wallenstein  can  Austria 
Be  conqueror. 

ILLO. 

The  Duke  will  soon  assemble 
A  mighty  army,  all  comes  crowding,  streaming 
To  banners,  dedicate  by  destiny 
To  fame  and  prosperous  fortune.     I  behold 
Old  times  come  back  again,  he  will  become 
Once  more  the  mighty  lord  which  he  has  been. 
How  will  the  fools,  who've  now  deserted  him, 
Look  then?     I  can't  but  laugh  to  think  of  them  ; 
For  lands  will  he  present  to  all  his  friends  ; 
And  like  a  king  and  emperor  reward 


620  COLE  RID  GE  'S  POEMS. 

True  services  ;  but  we've  the  nearest  claims. 

You  will  not  be  forgotten,  Governor  !  [To  Gordon. 

He'll  take  you  from  this  nest  and  bid  you  shine 

In  higher  station  ;  your  fidelity 

Well  merits  It. 

GORDON. 

I  am  content  already, 

And  wish  to  climb  no  higher ;  where  great  height  is, 
The  fall  must  needs  be  great.     *  Great  height,  great  depth.' 

ILLO. 

Here  you  have  no  more  business,  for  to-morrow, 
The  Swedes  will  take  possession  of  the  citadel. 
Come,  Tertsky,  it  is  supper-time.     What  think  you  ! 
Say,  shall  we  have  the  state  illuminated 
In  honor  of  the  Swede  ?     And  who  refuses 
To  do  it  is  a  Spaniard  and  a  traitor. 

TERTSKY. 
Nay,  nay  !  not  that,  it  will  not  please  the  Duke — 

ILLO. 

What !  we  are  masters  here ;  no  soul  shall  dare 
Avow  himself  imperial  where  we've  the  rule. 
Gordon  !  good  night,  and,  for  the  last  time,  take 
A  fair  leave  of  the  place.     Send  out  patroles 
To  make  secure  ;  the  watchword  may  be  altered 
At  the  stroke  of  ten  ;  deliver  in  the  keys 
To  the  Duke  himself,  and  then  you're  quit  forever 
Your  wardship  of  the  gates,  for  on  to-morrow 
The  Swedes  will  take  possession  of  the  citadel. 

TERTSKY.  (as  he  is  going,  to  Butler.) 
You  come  though  to  the  castle. 

BUTLER. 

At  the  right  time. 

[Exeunt  Tertsky  and  Illo< 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  621 

SCENE  VIII. 

GORDON,  BUTLER. 

GORDON,  (looking  after  them.) 
Unhappy  men  !     How  free  from  all  foreboding  ! 
They  rush  into  the  outspread  net  of  murder, 
In  the  blind  drunkenness  of  victory  ; 
I  have  no  pity  for  their  fate.     This  Illo, 
This  overflowing  and  fool-hardy  villain 
That  would  fain  bathe  himself  in  his  Emperor's  blood. 

BUTLER. 

Do  as  he  ordered  you.     Send  round  patroles, 
Take  measures  for  the  citadel's  security  ; 
When  they  are  within  I  close  the  castle  gate, 
That  nothing  may  transpire. 

GORDON,  (with  earnest  anxiety.) 

O  !  haste  not  so  ? 
Nay,  stop  ;  first  tell  me 

BUTLER. 

You  have  heard  already, 

To-morrow  to  the  Swedes  belongs.     This  night 
Alone  is  ours.     They  make  good  expeditions, 
But  we  will  make  still  greater.     Pare  you  well. 

GORDON. 

Ah !  your  looks  tell  me  nothing  good.    Nay,  Butler, 
I  pray  you,  promise  me  ! 

BUTLER. 

The  sun  has  set ; 

A  fateful  evening  doth  descend  upon  us, 
And  brings  on  their  long  night !     Their  evil  stars 
Deliver  them  unarmed  into  our  hands, 
And  from  this  drunken  dream  of  golden  fortunes 
The  dagger  at  their  heart  shall  rouse  them.     Well, 
The  Duke  was  ever  a  great  calculator  ; 
His  fellow-men  were  figures  on  his  chess-board, 
To  move  and  station,  as  his  game  required. 
Other  men's  honor,  dignity,  good  name, 
Did  he  shift  like  pawns,  and  made  no  conscience  of  it : 
Still  calculating,  calculating  still, 
And  yet  at  last  his*  calculation  proves 


622  COLERIDGE 'S  POEMS. 

Erroneous  ;  the  whole  game  is  lost  \  and  lo  ! 
His  own  life  will  be  found  among  the  forfeits. 

GORDON. 

0  think  not  of  his  errors  now  ;  remember 
His  greatness,  his  munificence,  think  on  all 
The  lovely  features  of  his  character, 

On  all  the  noble  exploits  of  his  life, 

And  let  them,  like  an  angel's  arm,  unseen, 

Arrest  the  lifted  sword. 

BUTLER. 
It  is  too  late 

1  suffer  not  myself  to  feel  compassion, 

Dark  thoughts  and  bloody  are  my  duty  now  : 

[grasping  Gordon's  hand 
Gordon  !  'tis  not  my  hatred  (I  pretend  not 
To  love  the  Duke,  and  have  no  cause  to  love  him), 
Yet  'tis  not  now  my  hatred  that  impels  me 
To  be  his  murderer.     'Tis  his  evil  fate. 
Hostile  concurrences  of  many  events 
Control  and  subjugate  me  to  the  office. 
In  vain  the  human  being  meditates 
Free  action.     He  is  but  the  wire-worked  puppet 
Of  the  blind  power,  which  out  of  his  own  choice 
Creates  for  him  a  dread  necessity. 
What  too  would  it  avail  him,  if  there  were 
A  something  pleading  for  him  in  my  heart — 
Still  I  must  kill  him. 

GORDON. 

If  your  heart  speak  to  you» 
Follow  its  impulse.     'Tis  the  voice  of  God. 
Think  you  your  fortunes  will  grow  prosperous 
Bedewed  with  blood,  his  blood  ?    Believe  it  not  1 

BUTLER. 

You  know  not.     Ask  not !     Wherefore  should  it  happen, 
That  the  Swedes  gained  the  victory  anjl  hasten 
With  such  forced  marches  hitherward  ?     Fain  would  I 
Have  given  him  to  the  Emperor's  mercy. — Gordon  I 
I  do  not  wish  his  blood — But  I  must  ransom 
The  honor  of  my  word — it  lies  in  pledge — 

And  he  must  die,  or 

[passionately  grasping  Gordon's  hana 

Listen  then,  and  know  ! 
I  am  dishonored  if  the  Duke  escape  us. 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  623 

GORDON. 

0  !  to  save  such  a  man 

BUTLER. 

What! 

GORDON. 

It  is  worth 

A  sacrifice. — Come,  friend  !  be  noble-minded  ! 
Our  own  heart,  and  not  other  men's  opinions, 
Forms  our  true  honor. 

BUTLER,  (with  a  cold  and  haughty  air.) 

He  is  a  great  lord, 

This  Duke — and  I  am  but  of  mean  importance. 
This  is  what  you  would  say  ?     Wherein  concerns  it 
The  world  at  large,  you  mean  to  hint  to  me,* 
Whether  the  man  of  low  extraction  keeps 
Or  blemishes  his  honor — 
So  that  the  man  of  princely  rank  be  saved. 
We  all  do  stamp  our  value  on  ourselves. 
The  price  we  challenge  for  ourselves  is  given  us. 
There  does  not  live  on  earth  the  man  so  stationed, 
That  I  despise  myself  compared  with  him. 
Man  is  made  great  or  little  by  his  own  will ; 
Because  I  am  true  to  mine,  therefore  he  dies. 

GORDON. 

1  am  endeavoring  to  move  a  rock. 

Thou  hadst  a  mother,  yet  no  human  feelings 

I  cannot  hinder  you,  but  may  some  god 

Rescue  him  from  you !  [Exit  Gordon. 

SCENE  IX. 

BUTLER,  (alone.) 

I  treasured  my  good  name  all  my  life  long  ; 
The  Duke  has  cheated  me  of  life's  best  jewel, 
So  that  I  blush  before  this  poor  weak  Gordon ! 
He  prizes  above  all  his  fealty  ; 
His  conscious  soul  accuses  him  of  nothing ; 
In  opposition  to  his  own  soft  heart 
He  subjugates  himself  to  an  iron  duty  ', 
Me  in  a  weaker  moment  passion  warped ; 
I  stand  beside  him,  and  must  feel  myself 
The  worse  man  of  the  two.     What,  though  the  world 


624 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


Is  ignorant  of  my  purposed  treason,  yet 
One  man  does  know  it,  and  can  prove  it  too — 
High-minded  Piccolomini ! 
There  lives  the  man  who  can  dishonor  me  ! 
This  ignominy  blood  alone  can  cleanse  ! 
Duke  Friedland,  thou  or  I — into  my  own  hands 
Fortune  delivers  me — The  dearest  thing  a  man  has  is  himself. 

[The  curtain  drops. 


ACT  IV. 

Scene — Sutler's  Chamber. 
SCENE  I. 


BUTLER,  MAJOR  GERALDIN. 

BUTLER. 
Find  me  twelve  strong  dragoons,  arm  them  with  pikes, 

For  there  must  be  no  firing 

Conceal  -them  somewhere  near  the  banquet-room, 
And  soon  as  the  dessert  is  served  up,  rush  all  in 
And  cry — Who  is  loyal  to  the  Emperor  ? 
I  will  o'erturn  the  table — while  you  attack 
Illo  and  Tertsky,  and  despatch  them  both. 
The  castle-palace  is  well-barred  and  guarded, 
That  no  intelligence  of  this  proceeding 
May  make  its  way  to  the  Duke. — Go  instantly  ; 
Have  you  yet  sent  for  Captain  Devereux 
And  the  Macdonald  ? 

GERALDIN. 

They'll  be  here  anon. 

[Exit  Geraldii 
BUTLER. 

Here's  no  room  for  delay.     The  citizens 
Declare  for  hin>  ;  a  dizzy  drunken  spirit 
Possesses  the  whole  town.     They  see  in  the  Dukes 
A  prince  of  peace,  a  founder  of  new  ages 
And  golden  times.     Arms  too  have  been  given  out 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  625 

By  the  town-council,  and  a  hundred  citizens 
Have  volunteered  themselves  to  stand  on  guard. 
Despatch  then  be  the  word.     For  enemies 
Threaten  us  from  without  and  from  within. 


SCENE  II. 

BUTLER,  CAPTAIN  DEVEREUX,  MACDONALD. 

MACDONALD. 
Here  we  are,  General. 

DEVEREUX. 
What's  to  be  the  watchword? 

BUTLER. 
Long  live  the  Emperor ! 

BOTH  (recoiling). 
How ! 

BUTLER. 

Live  the  House  of  Austria ! 

DEVEREUX. 
Have  we  not  sworn  fidelity  to  Friedland  ? 

MACDONALD. 
Have  we  not  marched  to  this  place  to  protect  him  ? 

BUTLER. 
Protect  a  traitor,  and  his  country's  enemy  ! 

DEVEREUX. 

Why,  yes !  in  his  name  you  administered 
Our  oath. 

MACDONALD. 
And  followed  him  yourself  to  Egru. 

BUTLER. 
I  did  it  the  more  surely  to  destroy  him. 

DEVEREUX. 

So  then ! 

40 


626  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


MACDONALD- 
An  altered  case ! 

BUTLER,  (to  Devereux.) 

Thou  wretched  man ! 
So  easily  leav'st  thou  thy  oath  and  colors  ? 

DEVEREUX. 

The  devil ! — I  but  followed  your  example. 
If  you  could  prove  a  villain,  why  not  we? 

MACDONALD. 

We've  naught  to  do  with  thinking— that's  your  business. 
You  are  our  General,  and  give  out  the  orders  ; 
We  follow  you,  tho'  the  track  lead  to  hell. 

BUTLER,  (appeased). 
Good  then !    we  know  each  other. 

MACDONALD. 

I  should  hope  soc 
DEVEREUX. 

Soldiers  of  fortune  we  are — who  bids  most, 
He  has  us. 

MACDONALD. 
'Tis  e'en  so  I 

BUTLER. 

Well,  for  the  present 
Ye  must  remain  honest  and  faithful  soldiers. 

DEVEREUX. 
We  wish  no  other. 

BUTLER. 
Ay,  and  make  your  fortunes. 

MACDONALD. 
That  is  still  better. 

BUTLER. 
Listen  1 
BOTH. 

We  attend. 
BUTLER. 

It  is  the  Emperor's  will  and  ordinance 
To  seize  the  person  of  the  Prince-Duke  Friedland, 
Alive  or  dead. 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLEKSTEIN.  627 


DEVEREUX. 
It  runs  so  in  the  letter. 

MACDONALD. 
Alive  or  dead — these  were  the  very  words. 

BUTLER. 

And  he  shall  be  rewarded  from  the  State 
In  land  and  gold,  who  proffers  aid  thereto. 

DEVEREUX. 

Ay  ?     That  sounds  well.     The  words  sound  always  well 
That  travel  hither  from  the  court.     Yes  !  yes  ! 
We  know  already  what  court-words  import. 
A  golden  chain  perhaps  in  sign  of  favor, 
Or  an  old  charger,  or  a  parchment  patent, 
And  such  like.— The  Prince-Duke  pays  better. 

MACDONALD. 

The  Duke's  a  splendid  paymaster. 

BUTLER. 

All  over 
With  that,  my  friends  !     His  lucky  stars  are  set. 

MACDONALD. 
And  is  that  certain  ? 

BUTLER. 

You  have  my  word  for  it, 

DEVEREUX. 
His  lucky  fortunes  all  past  by  ? 

BUTLER. 

For  ever. 
He  is  as  poor  as  we. 

HACDONALD. 

As  poor  as  we  ? 
DEVEREUX. 
Macdonald,  we'll  desert  him  ! 

BUTLER. 

We'll  desert  him  |      - 

Full  twenty  thousand  have  done  that  already  ; 
We  must  do  more,  my  countrymen  !     In  short-- 
We— we  must  kill  him. 


628 


COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


BOTH,  (starting  back.) 
Kill  him ! 

BUTLER. 

Yes  !  must  kill  him. 
And  for  that  purpose  have  I  chosen  you. 

BOTH. 
Us! 

BUTLER. 
You,  Captain  Devereux,  and  thee,  Macdonald. 

DEVEREUX,  (after  a  pause.) 
Choose  you  some  other. 

BUTLER. 

What!  art  dastardly? 

Thou,  w?th  full  thirty  lives  to  answer  for — 
Thou  conscientious  of  a  sudden  ? 

DEVEREUX. 

Nay, 
To  assassinate  our  lord  and  General— 

MACDONALD. 
To  whom  we've  sworn  a  soldier's  oath — 


BUTLER. 


The  oath 


Is  null,  for  Friedland  is  a  traitor. 

DEVEREUX. 
No,  no  1    It  is  too  bad  ! 

MACDONALD. 

Yes,  by  my  soul ! 
It  is  too  bad.    One  has  a  conscience  too — 

DEVEREUX. 

If  it  were  not  our  chieftain,  who  so  long 
Had  issued  the  commands,  and  claimed  our  duty 

BUTLER. 
Is  that  the  objection  ? 

DEVEREUX. 

Were  it  my  own  father, 


THE  DEA  TH  OF  WALLENSTEItf.  62$ 


And  the  Emperor's  service  should  demand  it  of  me. 

It  might  be  done  perhaps — But  we  are  soldiers, 

And  to  assassinate  our  chief  Commander, 

This  is  a  sin,  a  foul  abomination. 

From  which  no  monk  or  confessor  absolves  us0 

BUTLER. 

I  am  your  Pope,  and  give  you  absolution. 
Determine  quickly  ! 

DEVEREUX. 
^Twill  not  do ! 

MACDONALD. 

'Twon'tdo! 

BUTLER. 
Well,  off  then  !  and — send  Pestalutz  to  me. 

DEVEREUX.  (hesitates.) 
The  Pestalutz— 

MACDONALD. 
What  may  you  want  with  him  * 

BUTLER. 
If  you  reject  it,  we  can  find  enough — 

DEVEREUX. 

Nay,  if  he  must  fall,  we  may  earn  the  bounty 
As  well  as  any  other.     What  think  you. 
Brother  Macdonald  ? 

MACDOXALD. 

Why  if  he  must  fall, 
And  ?/%7Zfall,  and  it  can't  be  otherwise, 
One  would^iot  give  place  to  this  Pestalutz. 

DEVEREUX.  (after  some  reflection.) 
When  do  you  propose  he  should  fall  ? 

BUTLER. 

This  night 
To-morrow  will  the  Swedes  be  at  our  gates. 

DEVEREUX. 
You  take  upon  you  all  the  consequences  1 


630  COLERIDGE 'S  POEMS. 


BUTLER. 
I  take  the  whole  upon  me. 

DEVEREUX. 

And  it  is 

The  Emperor's  will,  his  express  absolute  will  ? 
For  we  have  instances,  that  folks  may  like 
The  murder  and  yet  hang  the  murderer. 

BUTLER. 

The  manifesto  says — alive  or  dead. 
Alive — 'tis  not  possible — you  see  it  is  not. 

DEVEREUX. 

Well,  dead  then  !  dead  !    But  how  can  we  come  at  him  ? 
The  town  is  filled  with  Tertsky's  soldiery. 

MACDONALD. 
Ay  !  and  then  Tertsky  still  remains,  and  Illo — . 

BUTLER. 
With  these  we  shall  begin — you  understand  me  ? 

DEVEREUX. 
How  ?    And  must  they  too  perish  ? 

BUTLER. 

They  the  first. 
MACDONALD. 
Hear,  Devereux  !     A  bloody  evening  this. 

DEVEREUX. 
Have  you  a  man  for  that  ?    Commission  me — 

BUTLER. 

'Tis  given  in  trust  to  Major  Geraldin  ; 
This  is  a  carnival  night,  and  there's  a  feast  ^ 
Given  at  the  Castle — there  we  shall  surprise  them, 
And  hew  them  down.     The  Pestalutz  and  Lesley 
Have  that  commission — soon  as  that  is  finished — 

DEVEREUX. 

Hear,  General !     It  will  be  all  one  to  you. 
Hark'e  !  let  me  exchange  with  Geraldin. 

BUTLER. 
'Twill  be  the  lesser  danger  with  the  Duke. 


THE  DEA  777  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  631 

DEVEREUX. 

Danger  !    The  devil !     What  do  you  think  me,  General  ? 
'Tis  the  Duke's  eye,  and  not  his  sword,  I  fear. 

BUTLER. 
What  can  his  eye  do  to  thee  ? 

DEVEREUX. 

Death  and  hell ! 

Thou  know'st  that  I'm  no  milk-sop,  General ! 
But  'tis  not  eight  days  since  the  Duke  did  send  me 
Twenty  gold  pieces  for  this  good  warm  coat 
Which  I  have  on  !  and  then  for  him  to  see  me 
Standing  before  him  with  the  pike,  his  murderer, 
That  eye  of  his  looking  upon  this  coat — 
Why — why — the  devil  fetch  me !  I'm  no  milk-sop  I 

BUTLER. 

The  Duke  presented  thee  this  good  warm  coat, 
And  thou,  a  needy  wight,  hath  pangs  of  conscience 
To  run  him  through  the  body  in  return. 
A  coat  that  is  far  better  and  far  warmer 
Did  the  Emperor  give  to  him,  the  Prince's  mantle. 
How  doth  he  thank  the  Emperor  ?     With  revolt, 
And  treason. 

DEVEREUX. 

That  is  true.    The  devil  take 
Such  thinkers  !     I'll  despatch  him. 

BUTLER. 

And  would'st  quiet 

Thy  conscience,  thou  hast  naught  to  do  but  simply 
Pull  off  the  coat ;  so  canst  thou  do  the  deed 
With  light  heart  and  good  spirits. 

DEVEREUX. 

You  are  right. 

That  did  not  strike  me.     I'll  pull  off  the  coat — 
So  there's  an  end  of  it. 

MACDOXALD. 

Yes,  but  there's  another 
Point  to  be  thought  of. 

BUTLER. 

And  what's  that,  Macdonald  ? 


632  COLE  RID  G&S  POEMS. 

MACDONALD. 

What  avails  sword  or  dagger  against  him  I 
He  is  not  to  be  wounded — he  is — 

BUTLER,  (starting  up.} 

What! 

MACDONALD. 

Safe  against  shot,  and  stab  and  slash  !     Hard  frozen, 
Secured,  and  warranted  by  the  black  art 
His  body  is  impenetrable,  I  tell  you. 

DEVEREUX. 

In  Inglestadt  there  was  just  another — 
His  whole  skin  was  the  same  as  steel ;  at  last 
We  were  obliged  to  beat  him  down  with  gunstocks. 

MACDONALD. 
Hear  what  I'll  do. 

DEVEREUX. 

Well? 

MACDONALD. 

In  the  cloister  here 

There's  a  Dominican,  my  countryman. 
I'll  make  him  dip  my  sword  and  pike  for  me 
In  holy  water,  and  say  over  them 
One  of  his  strongest  blessings.    That's  probatum  f 
Nothing  can  stand  'gainst  that. 

BUTLER. 

So  do,  Macdonald ! 

BUT  now  go  and  select  from  out  the  regiment 
Twenty  or  thirty  able-bodied  fellows, 
And  let  them  take  the  oaths  to  the  Emperor. 
Then,  when  it  strikes  eleven,  when  the  first  rounds 
Are  passed,  conduct  them,  silently  as  may  be, 
To  th'  house — I  will  myself  be  not  far  off. 

DEVEREUX. 

But  how  do  we  get  through  Hartschier  and  Gordon, 
That  stand  on  guard  there  in  the  inner  chamber  ? 

BUTLER. 

I  have  made  myself  acquainted  with  the  place. 
I  lead  you  through  a  back-door  that's  defended 
By  one  man  only.  Me  my  rank  and  office 


THE  DEA  TH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  633 

Give  access  to  the  Duke  at  every  hour. 

I'll  go  before  you — with  one  pointed-stroke 

Cut  Hartschier's  wind-pipe,  and  make  way  for  you. 

DEVEREUX. 

And  when  we're  there,  by  what  means  shall  we  gain 
The  Duke's  bed-chamber,  without  his  alarming 
The  servants  of  the  Court  ?  for  he  has  here 
A  numerous  company  of  followers. 

BUTLER. 

The  attendants  fill  the  right  wing  ;  he  hates  bustle, 
And  lodges  in  the  left  wing  quite  alone. 

DEVEREUX. 

Were  it  well  over — hey,  Macdonald  ?  I 
Feel  queerly  on  the  occasion,  devil  knows  ! 

MACDONALD. 

And  I  too.     'Tis  too  great  a  personage. 
People  will  hold  us  for  a  brace  of  villains. 

BUTLER. 

In  plenty,  honor,  splendor, — You  may  safely 
Laugh  at  the  people's  babble. 

DEVEREUX. 

If  the  business 
Squares  with  one's  honor— if  that  be  quite  certain — 

BUTLER. 

Set  your  hearts  quite  at  ease.     Ye  save  for  Ferdinand 
His  crown  and  empire.     The  reward  can  be 
No  small  one. 

DEVEREUX. 
And  'tis  his  purpose  to  dethrone  the  Emperor  ? 

BUTLER. 
Yes  ! — Yes ! — to  rob  him  of  his  crown  and  life. 

DEVEREUX. 

And  he  must  fall  by  the  executioner's  hands, 
Should  we  deliver  him  up  to  the  Emperor 
Alive  ? 

BUTLER. 
It  were  his  certain  destiny. 


634  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

DEVEREUX. 

Well !  Well !  Come  then,  Macdonald,  he  shall  not 
Lie  long  in  pain. 

[Exeunt  Butler  through  one  door,  Macdonald  and  Devereua 
through  the  other. 

SCENE  III. 

Scene — a  Gothic  and  gloomy  apartment  at  the  Duchess  Friedland's. 
THEKLA  on  a  seat,  pale,  her  eyes  closed.  The  DUCHESS  and 
LADY  NEUBRUNN  busied  about  her.  WALLENSTEIN  and  the 
COUNTESS  in  conversation. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
How  knew  she  it  so  soon  ? 

COUNTESS. 

She  seems  to  have 

Foreboded  some  misfortune.     The  report 
Of  an  engagement,  in  the  which  had  fallen 
A  colonel  of  the  Imperial  army,  frightened  her. 
I  saw  it  instantly.     She  flew  to  meet 
The  Swedish  courier,  and  with  sudden  questioning, 
Soon  wrested  from  him  the  disastrous  secret. 
Too  late  we  missed  her,  hastened  after  her, 
We  found  her  lying  in  his  anus,  all  pale 
And  in  a  swoon. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
A  heavy,  heavy  blow  ! 
And  she  so  unprepared  1     Poor  child !     How  is  it  ? 

[turning  to  the  Duchess. 
Is  she  coming  to  herself  ? 

DUCHESS. 

Her  eyes  are  opening. 

COUNTESS. 
She  lives. 

THEKLA.  (looking  round  her.) 
Where  am  I  ? 

WALLENSTEIN.  (steps  to  her,  raising  her  up  in  his  arms.) 
Come,  cheerly,  Thekla  !  be  my  own  brave  girl ! 


THE  DEA  777  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  635 

See,  there's  thy  loving  mother.     Thou  art  in 
Thy  father's  arms. 

THEKLA.  {standing  up.} 

Where  is  he  ?     Is  he  gone  ? 

DUCHESS. 
Who  gone,  my  daughter  ? 

THEKLA. 

He— the  man  who  uttered 
That  word  of  misery. 

DUCHESS, 

O  !  think  not  of  it, 
My  Thekla ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Give  her  sorrow  leave  to  talk  ! 
Let  her  complain — mingle  your  tears  with  hers, 
For  she  hath  suffered  a  deep  anguish  ;  but 
She'll  rise  superior  to  it,  for  my  Thekla 
Hath  all  her  father's  unsubdued  heart. 

THEKLA. 

I  am  not  ill.     See,  I  have  power  to  stand. 

Why  does  my  mother  weep  ?     Have  I  alarmed  her 

It  is  gone  by — I  recollect  myself. 

[She  casts  her  eyes  round  the  room,  as  seeking  some  one, 
Where  is  he  ?    Please  you,  do  not  hide  him  from  me. 
You  see,  I  have  strength  enough  :  now  I  will  hear  him. 

DUCHESS. 

No,  never  shall  this  messenger  of  evil 
Enter  again  into  thy  presence,  Thekla. 

THEKLA. 
My  father — 

WALLEXSTEIN. 
Dearest  daughter ! 

THEKLA. 

I'm  not  weak — 

Shortly  I  shall  be  quite  myself  again. 
You'll  grant  me  one  request? 


636  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Name  it,  my  daughter. 

THEKLA. 

Permit  the  stranger  to  be  called  to  me. 
And  grant  me  leave,  that  by  myself  I  may 
Hear  his  report  and  question  him. 

DUCHESS. 

No,  never! 

COUNTESS. 
"Pis  not  advisable— assent  not  to  it. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
Hush  !  Wherefore  would'stthou  speak  with  him,  my  daughter? 

THEKLA. 

Knowing  the  whole,  I  shall  be  more  collected ; 
I  will  not  be  deceived.     My  mother  wishes 
Only  to  spare  me.     I  will  not  be  spared. 
The  worst  is  said  already  :  I  can  hear 
Nothing  of  deeper  anguish  ! 

COUNTESS  and  DUCHESS. 
Do  it  not. 

THEKLA. 

The  horror  overpowered  me  by  surprise. 
My  heart  betrayed  me  in  the  stranger's  presence  ; 
He  was  a  witness  of  my  weakness,  yea, 
I  sank  into  his  arms  :  and  that  has  shamed  me. 
I  must  replace  myself  in  his  esteem, 
And  I  must  speak  with  him,  perforce,  that  he, 
The  stranger,  may  not  think  ungently  of  me. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

I  see  she  is  in  the  right,  and  am  inclined 
To  grant  her  this  request  of  hers.     Go,  call  him. 

[Lady  Neubrunn  goes  to  call  him. 

DUCHESS. 
But  I,  thy  mother,  will  be  present— 

THEKLA. 

'Twerg 
More  pleasing  to  me,  if  alone  I  saw  him  : 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  637 


Trust  me,  I  shall  behave  myself  the  more 
Collectedly. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
Permit  her  own  will. 

Leave  her  alone  with  him  ;  for  there  are  sorrows. 
Where,  of  necessity,  the  soul  must  be 
Its  own  support.     A  strong  heart  will  rely 
On  its  own  strength  alone.     In  her  own  bosom, 
Not  in  her  mother's  arms,  must  she  collect 
The  strength  to  rise  superior  to  this  blow. 
It  is  mine  own  brave  girl.     I'll  have  her  treated 
Not  as  the  woman,  but  the  heroine.  [Going. 

COUNTESS,  (detaining  Mm.) 
Where  art  thou  going  ?     I  heard  Tertsky  say 
That  'tis  thy  purpose  to  depart  from  hence 
To-morrow  early,  but  to  leave  us  here. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Yes,  ye  stay  here,  placed  under  the  protection 
Of  gallant  men. 

COUNTESS. 

O  take  us  with  you,  brother, 
Leave  us  not  in  this  gloomy  solitude 
To  brood  o'er  anxious  thoughts.     The  mists  of  doubt 
Magnify  evils  to  a  shape  of  horror. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Who  speaks  of  evil  ?     I  entreat  you,  sister, 
Use  words  of  better  omen. 

COUNTESS. 

Then  take  us  with  you. 

0  leave  us  not  behind  you  in  a  place 
That  forces  us  to  such  sad  omens.     Heavy 
And  sick  within  me  is  my  heart — 

These  walls  breathe  on  me  like  a  church-yard  vault. 

1  cannot  tell  you,  brother,  how  this  place 
Doth  go  against  my  nature.     Take  us  with  you. 
Come,  sister,  join  you  your  entreaty ! — Niece, 
Yours  too.     We  all  entreat  you,  take  us  with  you  ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The  place's  evil  omens  will  I  change, 
Making  it  that  which  shields  and  shelters  for  me 
My  best  beloved. 


638  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

NEUBRUNN.  (returning.) 
The  Swedish  officer. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
Leave  her  alone  with  him.  [Exit* 

DUCHESS,  (to  Thekla,  who  starts  and  shivers.) 

There — pale  as  death  ! — Child,  'tis  impossible 

That  thou  shouldst  speak  with  him.     Follow  thy  mother. 

THEKLA. 
The  Lady  Neubrunn  then  may  stay  with  me. 

[Exeunt  Duchess  and  Countes* 


SCENE  IV. 

THEKLA,  the  SWEDISH  CAPTAIN,  LADY  NEUBRUNIT. 

CAPTAIN,  (respectfully  approaching  her.) 
Princess — I  must  entreat  your  gentle  pardon — 
My  inconsiderate  rash  speech — How  could  I — 

THEKLA.  (with  dignity.) 
You  have  beheld  me  in  my  agony, 
A  most  distressful  accident  occasioned 
You,  from  a  stranger,  to  become  at  once 
My  confidant. 

CAPTAIN. 

I  fear  you  hate  my  presence 
For  my  tongue  spake  a  melancholy  word. 

THEKLA. 

The  fault  is  mine.     Myself  did  wrest  it  from  you. 
The  horror  which  came  o'er  me  interrupted 
Your  tale  at  its  commencement.    May  it  please  you, 
Continue  it  to  the  end. 

CAPTAIN. 

Princess,  'twill 
Renew  your  anguish. 

THEKLA. 

I  am  firm. 

1  will  be  firm.    Well— how  began  the  engagement  ? 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEItf.  639 

CAPTAIN. 

We  lay,  expecting  no  attack,  at  Neustadt, 
Intrenched  but  insecurely  in  our  camp, 
When  towards  evening  rose  a  cloud  of  dust 
From  the  wood  thitherward  ;  our  vanguard  fled 
Into  the  camp,  and  sounded  the  alarm. 
Scarce  had  we  mounted,  ere  the  Pappenheimers, 
Their  horses  at  full  speed,  broke  thro'  the  lines, 
And  leapt  the  trenches  ;  but  their  heedless  courage 
Had  borne  them  onward  far  before  the  others — 
The  infantry  were  still  at  distance,  only 
The  Pappenheimers  followed  daringly 

Their  daring  leader 

[Thekla  betrays  agitation  in  her  gestures.    The  officer  pause* 

till  she  makes  a  sign  to  him  to  proceed. 

Both  in  van  and  flanks, 

With  our  whole  cavalry  we  now  received  Them, 
Back  to  the  trenches  drove  them,  where  the  foot 
Stretched  out  a  solid  ridge  of  pikes  to  meet  them  : 
They  neither  could  advance,  nor  yet  retreat ; 
And  as  they  stood  on  every  side  wedged  in, 
The  Rhinegrave  to  their  leader  called  aloud, 
Inviting  a  surrender;  but  their  leader, 

Young  Piccolomirii [Thekla,  as  giddy,  grasps  a  chair. 

Known  by  his  plume, 

And  his  long  hair,  gave  signal  for  the  trenches  ; 
Himself  leapt  first,  the  regiment  all  plunged  after. — 
His  charger,  by  an  halbert  gored,  reared  up, 
Flung  him  with  violence  off,  and  over  him 

The  horses,  now  no  longer  to  be  curbed 

[Thekla,  who  has  accompanied  the  last  speech  with  all  the 

marks  of  increasing  agony,  trembles  through  her  whole 

frame,  and  is  falling.     The  Lady  Neubrunn  runs  to  her, 

and  receives  her  in  her  arms. 

NEUBRUNN. 
My  dearest  Lady 

CAPTAIN. 
I  retire. 

THEKLA. 

'Tis  over. 
Proceed  to  the  conclusion?. 

CAPTAIN. 

Wild  despair 


640  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

Inspired  the  troops  with  frenzy  when  they  saw 

Their  leader  perish  \  every  thought  of  rescue 

Was  spurned  ;  they  fought  like  wounded  tigers  ;  their 

Frantic  resistance  roused  our  soldiery  • 

A  murderous  fight  took  place,  nor  was  the  contest 

Finished  before  their  last  man  fell. 

THEKLA.  (faltering.) 

And  where — 
Where  is — You  have  not  told  me  all. 

CAPTAIN,  (after  a  pause.) 

This  morning 

We  buried  him.     Twelve  youths  of  noblest  birth 
Did  bear  him  to  interment ;  the  whole  army 
Followed  the  bier.     A  laurel  decked  his  coffin  ; 
The  sword  of  the  deceased  was  placed  upon  it, 
In  mark  of  honor,  by  the  Rhinegrave's  self. 
Nor  tears  were  wanting  ;  for  there  are  among  us 
Many,  who  had  themselves  experienced 
The  greatness  of  his  mind,  and  gentle  manners  ; 
All  were  affected  at  his  fate.     The  Rhinegrave 
Would  willingly  have  saved  him  ;  but  himself 
Made  vain  th'  attempt — 'tis  said  he  wished  to  die. 

NEUBRUNN.  (to  Thekla,  who  has  hidden  her  countenance.) 
Look  up,  jny  dearest  Lady 

THEKLA 

Where  is  his  grave  ? 

CAPTAIN. 

At  Neustadt,  Lady  ;  in  a  cloister  church 
Are  his  remains  deposited,  until 
We  can  receive  directions  from  his  father. 

THEKLA. 
What  is  the  cloister's  name  ? 

CAPTAIN. 

Saint  Catharine's. 

THEKLA. 
And  how  far  is  it  thither  ?  * 

CAPTAIN. 

Nearjtwelve  leagues. 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  6dJ 

THEKLA. 
And  which  the  way  ? 

CAPTAIN. 

You  go  by  Tirschenreit 
And  Falkenberg,  through  our  advanced  posts. 

THEKLA. 

Who 
Is  their  commander  ? 

CAPTAIN. 
Colonel  Sekendorf. 
[Thekla  steps  to  the  table,  and  takes  a  ring  from  a  casket 

THEKLA. 

You  have  beheld  me  in  my  agony, 
And  shown  a  feeling  heart.     Please  you,  accept 

[giving  Mm  the  ring. 
A  small  memorial  of  this  hour.     Now  go  ! 

CAPTAIN,  (confused.) 

Princess 

[Thekla  silently  makes  signs  to  him  to  go,  and  turns  from 
him.  The  Captain  lingers,  and  is  about  to  speak.  Lady 
fieubrunn  repeats  the  signal,  and  he  retires. 


SCENE  V. 

THEKLA,  LADY  NEUBRUNN. 

THEKLA.  (falls  on  Neubrunris  neck.) 
Now,  gentle  Neubrunn,  show  me  the  affection 
Which  cnou  hast  ever  promised — prove  thyself 
My  own  true  friend  and  faithful  fellow-pilgrim. 
This  night  we  must  away. 

NEUBRDNN. 

Away !  and  whither  ? 

THEKLA. 

Whither !     There  is  but  one  place  in  the  world. 
Thither  where  he  lies  buried  !     To  his  coffin  ! 
41 


642  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


NEUBRUNN. 
What  would  you  do  there  ? 

THEKLA. 

What  do  there  ? 

That  wouldst  thou  not  have  asked,  hadst  thou  e'er  loved. 
There,  there  is  all  that  still  remains  of  him. 
That  single  spot  is  the  whole  earth  to  me. 

NEUBRUNN. 
That  place  of  death 

THEKLA. 

Is  now  the  only  place 

Where  life  yet  dwells  for  me  :  detain  me  not ! 
Come  and  make  preparations :  let  us  think 
Of  means  to  fly  from  hence. 

NEUBRUNN. 

Your  father's  rage — 

THEKLA. 

That  time  is  past 

And  now  I  fear  no  human  being's  rage — 

NEUBRUNN. 
The  sentence  of  the  world  !     The  tongue  of  calumny ! 

THEKLA. 

Whom  am  T  seeking?     Him  who  is  no  more. 
Am  I  then  hastening  to  the  arms— O  God 
I  haste  but  to  the  grave  of  the  beloved. 

NEUBRUNN. 
And  we  alone,  two  helpless  feeble  women  ? 

THEKLA. 
We  will  take  weapons ;  my  arm  shall  protect  the* 

NEUBRUNN. 
tn  the  dark  night-time  ? 

THEKLA. 

Darkness  will  conceal  us. 

NEUBRUNN. 
This  rough  tempestuous  night 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  643 


THEKLA. 

Had  he  a  soft  bed 
Under  the  hoofs  of  his  war-horses  ? 

NEUBRUNN. 

Heaven ! 
And  then  the  many  posts  of  the  enemy  ! — 

THEKLA. 

They  are  human  beings.     Misery  travels  free 
Through  the  whole  earth. 

NEUBRUNN. 

The  journey's  weary  length — 

THEKLA. 

The  pilgrim,  travelling  to  a  distant  shrine 
Of  hope  and  healing,  doth  not  count  the  leagues. 

NEUBRUNN. 
How  can  we  pass  the  gates  ? 

THEKLA. 

Gold  opens  them. 
Go,  do  but  go. 

NEUBRUNN. 

Should  we  be  recognized — 
THEKLA. 

In  a  despairing  woman,  a  poor  fugitive, 

Will  no  one  seek  the  daughter  of  Duke  Friedland. 

NEUBRUNN. 
And  where  procure  we  horses  for  our  flight  ? 

THEKLA. 
My  equerry  procures  them.     Go  and  fetch  him. 

NEUBRUNN. 
Dares  he,  without  the  knowledge  of  his  lord  ? 

THEKLA. 
He  will.     Go,  only  go.     Delay  no  longer. 

NEUBRUNW. 
Dear  lady  !  and  your  mother  ?• 


644  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


THEKLA. 

Oh  !  my  mother  I 

NEUBRUNN. 

So  much  as  she  has  suffered  too  already  ; 
Your  tender  mother— Ah !  how  ill  prepared 
For  this  last  anguish 

THEKLA. 

Woe  is  me  !  my  mother  ! 
Go  instantly.  (Pauses. 

NEUBRUNN. 
But  think  what  you  are  doing ! 

THEKLA. 
What  can  be  thought,  already  has  been  thought. 

NEUBRUNN. 
And  being  there,  what  purpose  you  to  do  ? 

THEKLA. 
There  a  Divinity  will  prompt  my  soul. 

NEUBRUNN.  f 

Your  heart,  dear  lady,  is  disquieted  ! 
And  this  is  not  the  way  that  leads  to  quiet. 

THEKLA. 

To  a  deep  quiet,  such  as  he  has  found, 
It  draws  me  on,  1  know  not  what  to  name  it ; 
Resistless  does  it  draw  me  to  his  grave. 
There  will  my  heart  be  eased,  my  tears  will  flow. 

0  hasten,  make  no  further  questioning  ! 
There  is  no  rest  for  me  till  I  have  left 

These  walls — they  fall  in  on  me — A  dim  power 
Drives  me  from  hence — O  mercy  !     What  a  feeling! 
What  pale  and  hollow  forms  are  those  !     They  fill, 
They  crowd  the  place  !     I  have  no  longer  room  here ! 
Mercy  !     Still  more  !     More  still !     The  hideous  swarm 
They  press  on  me  \  they  chase  me  from  these  walls — 
Those  hollow,  bodiless  forms  of  living  men  I 

NEUBRUNN. 
You  frighten  me  so,  ladj7,  that  no  longer 

1  dare  stay  here  myself.     I  go  and  call 

Rosenberg  instantly.  {Exit  Lady  Neubrunn 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIM  645 


SCENE  VI. 

THEKLA. 

His  spirit  'tis  that  calls  me  :  'tis  the  troop 

Of  his  true  followers,  who  offered  up 

Themselves  t'  avenge  his  death  ;  and  they  accuse  me 

Of  an  ignoble  loitering — they  would  not 

Forsake  their  leader  even  in  death — they  died  for  him  ! 

And  shall  /  live  ? 

For  me,  too,  was  the  laurel  garland  twined 
That  decks  his  bier.     Life  is  an  empty  casket. 
I  throw  it  from  me.     O,  my  only  hope  '} 
To  die  beneath  the  hoofs  of  trampling  steeds — 
That  is  the  lot  of  heroes  upon  earth  !  [Exit  rhekla 

(The  curtain  drops.) 


ACT  V. 

Scene — a  Saloon,  terminated  by  a  -gallery  which  extends  far  into 
the  back-ground. 

SCENE  I. 

WALLENSTEIN  (sitting  at  a  table],  the  SWEDISH  CAPTAIN  (stand- 
ing before  him). 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Commend  me  to  your  lord.     I  sympathize 
In  his  good  fortune  ;  and  if  you  have  seen  me 
Deficient  in  the  expressions  of  that  joy, 
Which  such  a  victory  might  well  demand, 
Attribute  it  to  no  lack  of  good  will, 
For  henceforth  are  our  fortunes  one.     Farewell, 
And  for  your  trouble  take  my  thanks.     To-morrow 
The  citadel  shall  be  surrendered  to  you, 
On  your  arrival. 

[The  Swedish  Captain  retires.  Wallenstein  sits  lost  in 
thought,  his  eyes  fixed  vacantly,  and  his  head  sustained 
by  Ms  hand.  The  Countess  Tertsky  enters,  stands  before 


646  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 


him  awhile,  unobserved  by  him  ;  at  length  he  starts,  see* 
her,  and  recollects  himself. 
Coiii'st  thou  from  her  ?     Is  she  restored  ?    How  is  she  ? 

COUNTESS. 

My  sister  tells  ine  she  was  more  collected 
After  her  conversation  with  the  Swede, 
ttie  has  now  retired  to  rest. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The  pang  will  soften. 
She  will  shed  tears. 

COUNTESS. 

I  find  thee  altered  too, 
My  brother  !     After  such  a  victory 
I  had  expected  to  have  found  in  thee 
A  cheerful  spirit.     O  remain  thou  firm  ! 
Sustain,  uphold  us  !     For  our  light  thou  art, 
Our  sun. 

WALLENSTEIHT. 

Be  quiet.     I  ail  nothing.     Where's 
Thy  husband. 

COUNTESS. 
At  a  banquet — he  and  Illo. 

WALLENSTEIN.  (rises  and  strides  across  the  saloon.) 
The  night's  far  spent.     Betake  thee  to  thy  chamber. 

COUNTESS. 
Bid  me  not  go — O  let  me  stay  with  thee. 

WALLENSTEIN.  (moves  to  the  window.) 
There  is  a  busy  motion  in  the  Heaven, 
The  wind  doth  chase  the  flag  upon  the  tower, 
Fast  fly  the  clouds,  the  sickle  of  the  moon,* 


*  These  four  lines  are  expressed  in  the  original  with  exquisite  felicity. 
Am  Himmel  ist  geschastige  Bewegung, 
Dos  Thurmes  Falun-  jagt.  «l«-r  NViml.  srhnell  geht 
Der  Wolken  Zug,  die.  Alondet-Jlehel  wcmkt, 
Und  durch  die  Nacht  ungewisse  Helle. 

The  word  '  moon-sickle'  reminds  me  of  a  passage  in  Harris,  as  quoted  by  Johnson, 
under  the  word  «  falcated.'  '  The  enlightened  part  of  the  moon  appears  in  the  form 
of  a  sickle  or  reaping-hook,  which  it*  while  she  is  moving  from  the  conjunction  to  the 
opposition.  <»r  from  the  new  moon  to  the  full  ;  but  from  full  to  a  new  again,  the  en- 
li-ht.MHMl  part  appears  gibbons,  and  the  dark/a/™/, ,/.' 

The  words  '  wankeu '  and  '  schweben '  are  not  easily  translated.  The  English  words, 
by  \vhx-h  we  attempt  to  render  them,  are  either  vulgar  or  pedantic,  or  not  of  suf- 
ficiently general  application. 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 


Struggling,  darts  snatches  of  uncertain  light. 

No  form  of  star  is  visible  !     That  one 

White  stain  of  light,  that  single  glimm'ring  yonder, 

Is  from  Cassiopeia,  and  therein 

Is  Jupiter,     (a  pause.)     But  now 

The  blackness  of  the  troubled  element  hides  him  ! 

[  He  sinks  into  profound  melancholy,  and  looks  vacantly  into 
the  distance. 

COUNTESS,  (looks  on  him  mourn  fully ,  then  grasps  his  hand.) 
What  art  thou  brooding  on  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Hethinks, 

If  I  but  saw  him,  'twould  be  well  with  me. 
He  is  the  star  of  my  nativity, 
And  often  marvellously  hath  his  aspect 
Shot  strength  into  iny  heart. 

COUNTESS. 

Thou' It  see  him  again. 

WALLENSTEIN.  (remains  for  a  while  with  absent  mind,  then  as 
sumes  a  livelier  manner,  and  turns  suddenly  to  the  Countess.) 
See  him  again  ?    O  .never,  never  again. 

COUNTESS. 
How? 

WALLENSTEIN. 
He  is  gone — is  dust. 

COUNTESS. 

Whom  mean'st  thou  then  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

He  the  more  fortunate  !  yea,  he  hath  finished  ! 

For  him  there  is  no  longer  any  future — 

His  life  is  bright — bright  without  spot  it  was, 

And  cannot  cease  to  be.     No  ominous  hour 

Knocks  at  his  door  with  tidings  of  mishap. 

Far  off  is  he,  above  desire  and  fear  ; 

No  more  submitted  to  the  change  and  chance 

Of  the  unsteady  planets.     O  'tis  well 

With  him  !  but  who  knows  what  the  coming  hour 

Veiled  in  thick  darkness,  brings  for  us  ! 


648  COLERIDGE 'S  POEMS. 


COUNTESS. 

Thou  speakest 

Of  Piccolomini.    What  was  his  death  ? 
The  courier  had  just  left  thee,  as  I  came. 

[Wallenstein  by  a  motion  of  his  hand  makes  signs  to  her  to 

be  silent. 

Turn  not  thine  eyes  upon  the  backward  view, 
Let  us  look  forward  into  sunny  days. 
Welcome  with  joyous  heart  the  victory, 
Forget  what  it  has  cost  thee.     Not  to-day, 
For  the  first  time,  thy  friend  was  to  thee  dead  ; 
To  thee  he  died,  when  first  he  parted  from  thee. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

This  anguish  will  be  wearied  down,  I  know ; 

What  pang  is  permanent  with  man  ?    From  th'  highest, 

As  from  the  vilest  thing  of  every  day, 

He  learns  to  wean  himself ;  for  the  strong  hours 

Conquer  him .     Yet  I  feel  what  I  have  lost 

In  him.     The  bloom  is  vanished  from  iny  life. 

For  O  !  he  stood  beside  me  like  my  youth, 

Transformed  for  me  the  real  to  a  dream, 

Clothing  the  palpable  and  the  familiar 

With  golden  exhalations  of  the  dawn* 

Whatever  fortunes  wait  my  future  toils, 

The  beautiful  is  vanished — and  returns  not. 

COUNTESS. 

O  be  not  treacherous  to  thy  own  power. 
Thy  heart  is  rich  enough  to  vivify 
Itself.     Thou  lov'st  and  prizest  virtues  in  him, 
The  which  thyself  didst  plant,  thyself  unfold. 

WALLENSTEIN.  (stepping  to  the  door.) 

Who  interrupts  us  now  at  this  late  hour? 

It  is  the  Governor.     He  brings  the  keys 

Of  the  Citadel.     'Tis  midnight.     Leave  me,  sister  I 

COUNTESS. 

O  'tis  so  hard  to  me  this  night  to  leave  thee 
A  boding  fear  possesses  me  I 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Fear?     Wherefore  T 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  649 

COUNTESS. 

Shouldst  thou  depart  this  night,  and  we  at  waking 
Never  more  find  thee  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 
Fancies ! 

COUNTESS. 

O  my  soul 

Has  long  been  weighed  down  by  these  dark  forebodings. 
And  if  I  combat  and  repel  them  waking, 
They  still  rush  down  upon  my  heart  in  dreams. 
I  saw  thee  yesternight  with  thy  first  wife 
Sit  at  a  banquet,  gorgeously  attired. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

This  was  a  dream  of  favorable  omen, 
That  marriage  being  the  founder  of  my  fortunes. 

COUNTESS. 

To-day  I  dreamt  that  I  was  seeking  thee 
In  thy  own  chamber.     As  I  entered,  lo  ! 
It  was  no  more  a  chamber,  the  Chartreuse 
At  Gitschin  'twas,  which  thou  thyself  hast  founded, 
And  where  it  is  thy  will  that  thou  shouldst  be 
Interred. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
Thy  soul  is  busy  with  these  thoughts. 

COUNTESS. 

What,  dost  thou  not  believe,  that  oft  in  dreams 
A  voice  of  warning  speaks  prophetic  to  us  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  there  exist  such  voices. 
Yet  I  would  not  call  them 
Voices  of  warning  that  announce  to  us 
Only  the  inevitable.     As  the  sun, 
Ere  it  is  risen,  sometimes  paints  its  image 
In  the  atmosphere,  so  often  do  the  spirits 
Of  great  events  stride  on  before  the  events  ; 
And  in  to-day  already  walks  to-morrow. 
That  which  we  read  of  the  fourth  Henry's  death, 
Did  ever  vex  and  haunt  me  like  a  tale 
Of  my  own  future  destiny.     The  king 
Felt  in  his  breast  the  phantom  of  the  knife, 


650  COLE  RID  GE  'S  POEMS. 

Long  ere  Ravaillac  armed  himself  therewith. 
His  quiet  mind  forsook  him  ;  the  phantasma 
Started  him  in  his  Louvre,  chased  him  forth 
Into  the  open  air  ;  like  funeral  knells 
Sounded  that  coronation  festival ; 
And  still  with  boding  sense  he  heard  the  tread 
Of  those  feet,  that  ev'n  then  were  seeking  him 
Throughout  the  streets  of  Paris. 

COUNTESS. 

And  to  thee 
The  voice  within  thy  soul  bodes  nothing  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Nothing. 
Be  wholly  tranquil. 

COUNTESS. 
And  another  time 

I  hastened  after  thee,  and  thou  ran'st  from  me 
Thro'  a  long  suit,  thro'  many  a  spacious  hall. 
There  seemed  no  end  of  it — doors  creaked  and  clapped  ; 
I  followed  panting, but  could  not  o'ertake  thee  ; 
When  on  a  sudden  did  I  feel  myself 

Grasped  from  behind — the  hand  was  cold  that  grasped — 
'Twas  thou,  and  thou  didst  kiss  me,  and  there  seemed 
A  crimson  covering  to  envelope  us. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
That  is  the  crimson  tap'stry  of  my  chamber. 

COUNTESS,  (gazing  on  him.} 
If  it  should  come  to  that — if  I  should  see  thee, 
Who  staridest  now  before  me  in  the  fullness 
Of  life—  [She  falls  on  his  breast-  and  wee^ 

WALLEXSTEIN. 

The  Emperor's  proclamation  weighs  upon  thee — 
Alphabets  wound  not — and  he  finds  no  hands. 

COUNTESS. 

If  he  should  find  them,  my  resolve  is  taken — 
I  bear  about  m^  my  support  and  refuge.  [Exit  Counter 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTRIN.  651 


SCENE  II. 
WALLENSTEIN,  GORDON. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
All  quiet  in  the  town  ? 

GORDON. 

The  town  is  quiet. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

I  hear  a  boisterous  music !  arid  the  Castle 
Is  lighted  up.     W  ho  are  the  revellers  ? 

GORDON. 

There  is  a  banquet  giv^ii  at  the  Castle 
To  the  Count  Tertsky  and  Field-Marshal  Plo. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

In  honor  of  the  victory. — This  tribe 
Can  show  their  joy  in  nothing  else  but  feastinp. 

[Rings.     The  groom  of  the 
Unrobe  me.     I  will  lay  me  down  to  sleep. 

[Wallenstein  takes  the  keys  from 
So  we  are  guarded  from  all  enemies, 
And  shut  in  with  sure  friends. 
For  all  must  cheat  me,  or  a  face  like  this 

[Fixing  his  eye  on  Gordon- 
Was  ne'er  an  hypocrite's  mask. 

[The  Groom  of  the  Chamber  takes  off  his  mantle,  collar, 
and  scarf. 

Take  care — what  is  that  ? 

GROOM  OF  THE  CHAMBER. 
The  golden  chain  is  snapped  in  two. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
Well,  it  has  lasted  long  enough.     Here — give  it. 

[He  takes  and  looks  at  the  chain* 
'Twas  the  first  present  of  the  Emperor. 
He  hung  it  round  me  in  the  war  of  Friule, 
He  being  then  Archduke  ;  and  I  have  worn  it 

Till  now  from  habit 

From  superstition  if  you  will.     Belike, 
It  was  to  be  a  Talisman  to  me, 


652  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

And  while  I  wore  it  on  my  neck  in  faith 

It  was  to  chain  to  me  all  my  life  long, 

The  volatile  fortune,  whose  first  pledge  it  was. 

Well,  be  it  so  !     Henceforward  a  new  fortune 

Must  spring  up  for  me  ;  for  the  potency 

Of  this  charm  is  dissolved. 

[Groom  of  the  Chamber  retires  with  the  vestments,  Wallen 
stein  rises,  takes  a  stride  across  the  room,  and  stands  al 
last  before  Gordon  in  a  posture  of  meditation. 
How  the  old  time  returns  upon  me  !  I 
Behold  myself  once  more  at  Burgau,  where 
We  two  were  pages  of  the  court  together. 
We  oftentimes  disputed  :  thy  intention 
Was  ever  good  ;  but  thou  wert  wont  to  play 
The  moralist  and  preacher,  and  wouldst  rail  at  me — 
That  I  strove  after  things  too  high  for  me, 
Giving  my  faith  to  bold  unlawful  dreams, 
And  still  extol  to  me  the  golden  mean. 
— Thy  wisdom  hath  been  proved  a  thriftless  friend 
To  thy  own  self.     See,  it  has  made  thee  early 
A  superannuated  man,  and  (but 
That  my  munificent  stars  will  intervene) 
Would  let  thee  in  some  miserable  corner 
Go  out,  like  an  untended  lamp. 

GORDON. 

My  Prince ! 

With  light  heart  the  poor  fisher  moors  his  boat, 
And  watches  from  the  shore  the  lofty  ship 
Stranded  amid  the  storm. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Art  thou  already 

In  harbor  then,  old  man  ?     Well !  I  am  not. 
The  unconquered  spirit  drives  me  o'er  life's  billows  ; 
My  planks  still  firm,  my  canvas  swelling  proudly. 
Hope  is  my  goddess  still,  and  youth  my  inmate ; 
And  while  we  stand  thus  front  to  front  almost, 
I  might  presume  to  say,  that  the  swift  years 
Have  passed  by  powerless  o'er  my  unblanched  hair. 

[He  moves  with  long  strides  across  the  saloon,  and  remain 

on  the  opposite  side,  over  against  Gordon. 
Who  now  persists  in  calling  Fortune  false? 
To  me  she  has  proved  faithful,  with  fond  love 
Took  me  from  out  the  common  ranks  of  men, 
Arid,  like  a  mother  goddess,  with  strong  arm, 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  653 

Carried  me  swiftly  up  the  steps  of  life, 
Nothing  is  common  in  my  destiny, 
Nor  in  the  furrows  of  my  hand.     Who  dares 
Interpret  then  my  life  for  me,  as  'twere 
One  of  the  undistinguishable  many  ? 
True,  in  this  present  moment  I  appear 
Fallen  low  indeed  ;  but  I  shall  rise  again. 
The  high  flood  will  soon  follow  on  this  ebb  \ 
The  fountain  of  my  fortune,  which  now  stops, 
Repressed  and  bound  by  some  malicious  star, 
Will  soon  in  joy  play  forth  from  all  its  pipes. 

GrORDON. 

And  yet  remember  I  the  good  old  proverb, 
'  Let  the  night  come  before  we  praise  the  day.' 
I  would  be  slow  from  long-continued  fortune 
To  gather  hope  ;  for  hope  is  the  companion 
Griven  to  the  unfortunate  by  pitying  Heaven. 
Fear  hovers  round  the  head  of  prosperous  men  j 
For  still  unsteady  are  the  scales  of  fate. 

WALLENSTEIN.  (smiling.) 
I  hear  the  very  Gordon  that  of  old 
Was  wont  to  preach  to  me,  now  once  more  preaching  5 
1  know  well,  that  all  sublunary  things 
Are  still  the  vassals  of  vicissitude. 
Thei  unproptious  gods  demand  their  tribute. 
This,  long  ago,  the  ancient  Pagans  knew  ; 
And  therefore  of  their  own  accord  they  offered 
To  themselves  injuries,  so  to  atone 
The  jealousies  of  their  divinities  ; 
And  human  sacrifices  bled  to  Typhon. 

[After  a  pause,  serious,  and  in  a  more  subdued  manner. 
I  too  have  sacrificed  to  him — For  me 
There  fell  the  dearest  friend  ;  and  through  my  fault 
He  fell  !     No  joy  from  favorable  fortune 
Can  overweigh  the  anguish  of  this  stroke. 
The  envy  of  my  destiny  is  glutted  : 
Life  pays  for  life.     On  this  pure  head  the  lightning 
Was  drawn  off,  which  would  else  have  shattered  me* 


6$4  COLERIDGE 'S  POEMS, 

SCENE  III. 

To  these  enter  SENI. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Ts  not  that  Seni  ?  and  beside  himself. 
If  one  may  trust  his  looks !     What  brings  thee  hither 
At  this  late  hour,  Baptista  ? 

SENI. 

Terror,  Duke ! 
On  thy  account. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
What  now  ? 

SENI. 

Flee  ere  the  day  break  I 
Trust  not  thy  person  to  the  Swedes  ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What  now 
Is  in  thy  thoughts  ? 

SENI.  (with  louder  voice.) 
Trust  not  thy  person  to  these  Swedes. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What  is  it  then  ? 
SENI.  (still  more  urgently.) 
O  wait  not  the  arrival  of  these  Swedes  ! 
An  evil  near  at  hand  is  threatening  thee 
From  false  friends.     All  the  signs  stand  full  of  horror  I 
Near,  near  at  hand  the  net-work  of  perdition — 
Yea,  even  now  'tis  being  cast  around  thee  ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 
Baptista,  thou  art  dreaming  ! — Fear  befools  thee. 

SENI. 

Believe  not  that  an  empty  fear  deludes  me. 
Come,  read  it  in  the  planetary  aspects  ; 
Read  it  thyself,  that  ruin  threatens  thee 
Prom  false  friends  I 

WALLENSTEIN. 

From  the  falseness  of  my  friends 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  655 


Has  risen  the  whole  of  my  unprosperous  fortunes. 
The  warning  should  have  come  before !     At  present 
I  need  no  revelation  from  the  stars 
To  know  that. 

SENI. 

Come  and  see  !  trust  thine  own  eyes  1 
A  fearful  sign  stands  in  the  house  of  life  j 
An  enemy,  a  fiend  lurks  close  behind 
The  radiance  of  thy  planet — O  be  warned  I 
Deliver  not  thyself  up  to  these  heathens 
To  wage  a  war  against  our  holy  church. 

WALLENSTEIN.  (laughing  gently.) 

The  oracle  rails  that  way  !     Yes,  yes  !     Now 
I  recollect.     This  junction  with  the  Swedes 
Did  never  please  thee — lay  thyself  to  sleep, 
Baptista  !     Signs  like  these  I  do  not  fear. 
GORDON,  (who  during  the  whole  of  this  dialogue  has  shown 
marks  of  extreme  agitation,  and  now  turns  to  Wallenstein.) 
My  Duke  and  General !     May  I  dare  presume  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 
Speak  freely. 

GORDON. 

What?  if  'twere  no  mere  creation 
Of  fear,  if  God's  high  providence  vouchsafed 
To  interpose  its  aid  for  your  deliverance, 
And  made  that  mouth  its  organ. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Ye' re  both  feverish ! 

How  can  mishap  come  to  me  from  the  Swedes  ? 
They  sought  this  junction  with  me — 'tis  their  interest. 

GORDON,  (with  difficulty  suppressing  his  emotion.) 
But  what  if  the  arrival  of  these  Swedes — 
What  if  this  were  the  very  thing  that  winged 
The  ruin  that  is  flying  to  your  temples  ? 

\flings  himself  at  his  feet 
There  is  yet  time,  my  Prince 

SENI. 

O  hear  him  !  hear  him  J 


656  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

GORDOX.  (rises.) 

The  Rhinegrave's  still  far  off.     Give  but  the  order— 
This  citadel  shall  close  its  gates  upon  him. 
If,  then,  he  will  besiege  us,  let  him  try  it. 
But  this  I  say  ;  he'll  find  his  own  destruction 
With  his  whole  force  before  these  ramparts,  sooner 
Than  weary  down  the  valor  of  our  spirit. 
He  shall  experience  what  a  band  of  heroes, 
Inspirited  by  an  heroic  leader, 
Is  able  to  perform.     And  if  indeed 
It  be  thy  serious  wish  to  make  amend 
For  that  which  thou  hast  done  amiss, — this,  this 
Will  touch  and  reconcile  the  Emperor, 
Who  gladly  turns  his  heart  to  thoughts  of  mercy ; 
And  Friedland,  who  returns  repentant  to  him, 
Will  stand  yet  high  r  in  his  Emperor's  favor, 
Than  e'er  ho  stood  when  he  had  never  fallen. 

WALLENSTEIJT.  (contemplates  him  with  surprise,  remains  silent 
a  while,  betraying  strong  emotion.) 

Gordon — your  zeal  and  fervor  lead  you  far. 

Well,  well — an  old  friend  has  a  privilege. 

Blood,  Gordon,  has  been  flowing.     Never,  never 

Can  the  Emperor  pardon  me  :  and  if  he  could, 

Yet  I — I  ne'er  could  let  myself  be  pardoned. 

Had  I  foreknown  what  now  has  taken  place, 

That  he,  my  dearest  friend,  would  fall  for  me, 

My  first  death  offering  ;  arid  had  the  heart 

Spoken  to  me,  as  now  it  has  done — Gordon, 

It  may  be,  I  might  have  bethought  myself. 

It  may  be  too,  I  might  not. — Might,  or  might  not, 

Is  now  an  idle  question.     All  too  seriously 

Has  it  begun,  to  end  in  nothing,  Gordon ! 

Let  it  then  have  its  course.  [stepping  to  the  window. 

All  dark  and  silent — at  the  Castle  too 

All  is  now  hush'd — Light  me,  Chamberlain  ! 

[The  Groom  of  the  Chamber,  who  had  entered  during  the 
last  dialogue,  and  had  been  standing  at  a  distance  and 
listening  to  it  with  visible  expression*  of  the  deepest  in- 
terest, advances  in  extreme  agitation,  and  throws  himself 
at  the  Duke's  feet. 

And  thou  too  I     But  I  know  why  thou  dost  wish 

My  reconcilement  with  the  Emperor. 

Poor  man  !  he  hath  a  small  estate  in  Ciirnthem, 

And  fears  it  will  be  forfeited  because 

He's  in  my  service.     Am  I  then  so  poor, 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEW.  657 

That  I  no  longer  can  indemnify 

My  servants  ?    Well !  to  no  one  I  employ 

Means  of  compulsion.     If  'tis  thy  belief 

That  fortune  has  fled  from  me,  go  !     Forsake  me. 

This  night  for  the  last  time  mayst  thou  unrobe  me, 

And  then  go  over  to  thy  Emperor. 

Gordon,  good  night !  I  think  to  make  a  long 

Sleep  of  it ;  for  the  struggle  and  the  turmoil 

Of  this  last  day  or  two  was  great.     May't  please  you, 

Take  care  that  they  awake  me  not  too  early. 

[Exit  Wallenstein,  the  Groom  of  the  Chamber  lighting  him. 
Seni  follows.  Gordon  remains  on  the  darkened  stage,  fol- 
lowing the  Duke  with  his  eye,  till  he  disappears  at  the 
farther  end  of  the  gallery ;  then  by  his  gestures  the  old 
man  expresses  the  depth  of  his  anguish,  and  stands  lean- 
ing against  a  pillar. 


SCENE  IV. 

GORDON,  BUTLER,  (at  first  behind  the  scenes.) 

BUTLER,  (not  yet  come  into  view  of  the  stage.} 
Here  stand  in  silence  till  I  give  the  signal. 

GORDON,  (starts  up.) 
'Tis  he,  he  has  already  brought  the  murderers. 

BUTLER. 
The  lights  are  out.    All  lies  in  profound  sleep. 

GORDON. 

What  shall  I  do,  shall  I  attempt  to  save  him  ? 
Shall  I  call  up  the  house  ?     Alarm  the  guards  ? 

BUTLER,  (appears  but  scarcely  on  the  stage.) 
A  light  gleams  hither  from  the  corridor, 
It  leads  directly  to  the  Duke's  bed-chamber. 

GORDON. 

Bu  6  then  I  break  my  oath  to  the  Emperor  1 
If  he  escape  and  strengthen  the  enemy, 
Do  I  not  hereby  call  down  on  my  head 
All  the  dread  consequences  ? 

BUTLER,  (stepping  forward.) 

Hark  !     Who  speaks  there  ? 
42 


658  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

GORDON 

'Tis  better,  I  resign  it  to  the  hands 
Of  Providence.     For  what  am  I,  that  / 
Should  take  upon  myself  so  great  a  deed  ? 
/  have  not  murdered  him,  if  he  be  murdered  ; 
But  all  his  rescue  were  my  act  and  deed  ; 
Mine — and  whatever  be  the  consequences, 
I  must  sustain  them. 

BUTLER,  (advances.) 

I  should  know  that  voice. 

GORDON. 
Butler  ! 

BUTLER. 

'Tis  Gordon.     What  do  you  want  here  ? 
Was  it  so  late,  then,  when  the  Duke  dismissed  you? 

GORDON. 
Your  hand  bound  up  and  in  a  scarf  ? 

BUTLER. 

'Tis  wounded. 

That  Illo  fought  as  he  was  frantic,  till 
At  last  we  threw  him  on  the  ground. 

GORDON,  (shuddering.) 

Both  dead  ? 
BUTLER. 
Is  he  in  bed  ? 

GORDON. 
Ah,  Butler  I 

BUTLER. 

Is  he  ?  speak. 

GORDON. 

He  shall  not  perish !     Not  through  you  I     The  Heaven 
Refuses  your  arm.     See — 'tis  wounded  I — 

BUTLER. 
There  is  no  need  of  my  arm. 

GORDON. 

The  most  guilty 

Have  perished,  and  enough  is  given  to  justice. 
[The  Groom  of  the  Chamber  advances  from  the  gallery,  with 
his  fingers  on  his  mouth  commanding  silence. 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  659 

GORDON. 
He  sleeps  !     O  murder  not  the  holy  sleep  ! 

BUTLER. 
No  !  he  shall  die  awake.  [Is  going, 

GORDON. 

His  heart  still  cleaves 

To  earthly  things  ;  he's  not  prepared  to  step 
Into  the  presence  of  his  God  ! 

BUTLER,  (going.) 

God's  merciful ! 

GORDON,  (holds  him.} 
Grant  him  but  this  night's  respite. 

BUTLER,  (hurrying  off.) 

The  next  moment 
May  ruin  all. 

GORDON,  (holds  him  still.) 
One  hour ! 

BUTLER. 

Unhold  me !    What 
Can  that  short  respite  profit  him  ? 

GORDON. 

O— Time 

Works  miracles.     In  one  hour  many  thousands 
Of  grains  of  sand  run  out ;  and  quick  as  they, 
Thought  follows  thought  within  the  human  soul, 
Only  one  hour  !      Your  heart  may  change  its  purpose, 
His  heart  may  change  its  purpose — some  new  tidings 
May  come  ;  some  fortunate  event,  decisive, 
May  fall  from  Heaven  and  rescue  him  1     O  what 
May  riot  one  hour  achieve  ! 

BUTLER. 

You  but  remind  me, 
How  precious  every  minute  is  1  [He  stamps  on  the  floor 


660  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS, 


SCENE  V. 

To  these  enter  MACDONALD,  and  DEVEREUX,  with  the  Halberdiers. 

GORDON,  (throwing  himself  between  him  and  them.) 

No,  monster ! 

First  over  my  dead  body  thou  shalt  tread. 
I  will  not  live  to  see  the  accursed  deed ! 

BUTLER,  (forcing  him  out  of  the  way.) 
Weak-hearted  dotard !     [Trumpets  are  heard  in  the  distance. 

DEVEREUX  and  MACDONALD. 

Hark !     The  Swedish  trumpet  ? 
The  Swedes  before  the  ramparts  !    Let  us  hasten  ! 

GORDON,  (rushes  out.) 
O  God  of  mercy ! 

BUTLER,  (calling  after  him.) 
Governor,  to  your  post ! 

GROOM  OF  THE  CHAMBER.  (Hurries  in.) 
Who  dares  make  larum  here  ?    Hush  !  the  Duke  sleeps 

DEVEREUX.  (with  loud  harsh  voice.) 
Friend,  it  is  time  now  to  make  larum. 

GROOM  OF  THE  CHAMBER. 

Help  I 
Murder ! 

BUTLER. 
Down  with  him ! 

GROOM  OF  THE  CHAMBER,  (run  through   the  body  by  Devereux, 
falls  at  the  entrance  of  the  gallery.) 
Jesus  Maria  ! 

BUTLER. 
Burst  the  doors  open  ! 

[They  rush  over  the  body  into  the  gallery — two  doors  are 
heard  to  crash  one  after  the  other — voices  deadened  by  the 
distance — clash  of  arms — then  all  at  once  a  profound 
silence. 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  66 1 


SCENE  VI. 

COUNTESS  TERTSKY.  (with  alight.) 
Her  bed-chamber  is  empty  ;  she  herself 
Is  nowhere  to  be  found  !     The  Neubrunn  too, 
Who  watched  by  her,  is  missing.     If  she  should 
Be  flown — But  whither  flown  ?     We  must  call  up 
Every  soul  in  the  house.     How  will  the  Duke 
Bear  up  against  these  worst  bad  tidings  ?    O 
If  that  my  husband  now  were  but  returned 
Home  from  the  banquet :  Hark  !     I  wonder  whether 
The  Duke  is  still  awake  !     I  thought  I  heard 
Voices  and  tread  of  feet  here !     I  will  go 
And  listen  at  the  door.     Hark !     What  is  that  ? 
'Tis  hastening  up  the  steps  ! 


SCENE  VII. 

COUNTESS,  GORDON. 
GORDON,  (rushes  in  out  of  breath 
'Tis  a  mistake, 

'Tis  not  the  Swedes — Ye  must  proceed  no  further, 
Butler !     O  God  !     Where  is  he  ? 

[Then  observing  the  Countess. 

Countess  !  Say 

COUNTESS. 
You  are  come  then  from  the  Castle  ?     Where's  my  husband  ? 

GORDON,  (in  an  agony  of  affright.) 
Your  husband — Ask  not ! — To  the  Duke — 

COUNTESS. 

Not  till 
You  have  discovered  to  me 

GORDON. 

On  this  moment 

Does  the  world  hang.     For  God's  sake  !  to  the  Duke. 
While  we  are  speaking —  [calling  loudly. 

Butler!  Butler!  God! 

COUNTESS. 

Why,  he  is  at  the  Castle  with  my  husband. 

[Butler  comes  from  the  Gallery. 


662  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

GORDON. 

'Tis  a  mistake — 'Tis  not  the  Swedes — It  is 
The  Imperialist's  Lieutenarit-General 
Has  sent  me  hither,  will  be  here  himself 
Instantly. — You  must  not  proceed. 

BUTLER. 

He  comes 
Too  late.  [Gordon  dashes  himself  against  the  wall 

GORDON. 
O  God  of  mercy  ! 

COUNTESS. 

What  too  late  ? 

Who  will  be  here  himself  ?    Octavio 
In  Egra  ?    Treason  !     Treason  !     Where's  the  Duke  ? 

[She  rushes  to  the  gallery. 

SCENE  VIII. 

run  across  the  stage  full  of  terror.    The  whole  scene  must 
be  spoken  entirely  without  pauses. 

SENI.  (from  the  gallery.} 
O  blooo>  Wghtful  deed  I 

COUNTESS. 

What  is  it,  Seni  ? 

PAGE,  (from  the  gallery.) 
O  piteous  wgr&t  •'  [Other  servants  hasten  in  with  torches. 

COUNTESS. 
What  is  it  ?    Fo*  God's  sake  ! 

SENI. 

And  do  you  ask  ? 

Within  the  Duke  lies  murdered — and  your  husband 
Assassinated  at  the  Castle.     [The  Countess  stands  motionless. 

FEMALE  SERVANT,  (rushing  across  the  stage.) 
Help  !  Help  !  the  Duchess  1 

BURGOMASTER,  (enters.) 

What  mean  these  confused 
Loud  cries,  that  wake  the  sleepers  of  this  house  ? 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  663 

GORDON. 

Your  house  is  cursed  to  all  eternity. 
In  your  house  doth  the  Duke  lie  murdered ! 

BURGOMASTER,  (rushing  out.) 
Heaven  forbid  I 

FIRST  SERVANT. 
Fly !  fly  !  they  murder  us  all  1 

SECOND  SERVANT,  (carrying  silver  plate.) 

That  way  1    The  lower 
Passages  are  blocked  up. 

VOICE,  (from  behind  the  scene.) 
Make  room  for  the  Lieutenant-General ! 
[ At  these  words  the  Countess  starts  from  her  stupor,  collects 
herself,  and  retires  suddenly. 

VOICE,  (from  behind  the  scene.} 
Keep  back  the  people  !     Guard  the  door. 

> 
SCENE  IX. 

To  these  enter  OCTAVIO  PICCOLOMINI  with  all  his  train.  At  th6 
same  time  DEVEREUX  and  MACDONALD  enter  from  out  the  Cor- 
ridor  with  the  Halberdiers.  WAI/LENSTEIN'S  dead  body  is  car- 
ried over  the  back  part  of  the  stage  wrapped  in  a  piece  of  crim- 
son tapestry. 

OCTAVIO.  (entering  abruptly.) 
It  must  not  be  !     It  is  not  possible  ! 
Butler  !     Gordon ! 
I'll  not  believe  it.     Say  no  ! 

[Gordon,  without  answering,  points  with  his  hand  to  the 
body  of  Wattenstein  as  it  is  carried  over  the  back  of  the 
stage.     Octavio  looks  that  way,  and  stands  overpowers 
with  horror. 

DEVEREUX.  (to  Sutler.) 
Here  is  the  golden  fleece — the  Duke's  sword— 

MACDONALD. 
Is  it  your  order  ? 


664  COLERIDGE'S  POEMS. 

BUTLER,  (pointing  to  Octavio.) 

Here  stands  he  who  now 
Hath  the  sole  power  to  issue  orders. 

[Devereux  and  Macdonald  retire  with  marks  of  obeisance. 
One  drops  away  after  the  other,  till  only  Sutler,  Octavio, 
and  Gordon  remain  on  the  stage. 

OCTAVIO.  (turning  to  Sutler.) 
Was  that  my  purpose,  Butler,  when  we  parted  ? 
O  God  of  Justice ! 

To  thee  I  lift  my  hand  I  I  am  not  guilty 
Of  this  foul  deed. 

BUTLER. 

Your  hand  is  pure.    You  hare 
Availed  yourself  of  mine. 

OCTAVIO. 

Merciless  man  ! 

Thus  to  abuse  the  orders  of  thy  lord — 
And  stain  thy  Emperor's  holy  name  with  murder, 
With  bloody,  most  accursed  assassination  I 

BUTLER,  (calmly.) 
I've  but  fulfilled  the  Emperor's  own  sentence. 

OCTAVIO. 

0  curse  of  kings, 

Infusing  a  dread  life  into  their  words, 

And  linking  to  the  sudden  transient  thought 

The  unchangeable,  irrevocable  deed. 

Was  there  necessity  for  such  an  eager 

Despatch  ?     Could'st  thou  not  grant  the  merciful 

A  time  for  mercy  ?    Time  is  man's  good  angel. 

To  leave  no  interval  between  the  sentence 

And  the  fulfilment  of  it,  doth  beseem 

God  only,  the  immutable. 

BUTLER. 

For  what 

Rail  you  against  me  ?    What  is  my  offence  ? 
The  empire  from  a  fearful  enemy 
Have  I  delivered,  and  expect  reward. 
The  single  difference  betwixt  you  and  me 
Is  this  :  you  placed  the  arrow  in  the  bow  ; 

1  pulled  the  string.     You  sowed  blood,  and  yet  stand 


THE  DEA  Tff  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  665 

Astonished  that  blood  is  come  up.     I  always 

Knew  what  I  did,  and  therefore  no  result 

Hath  power  to  frighten  or  surprise  my  spirit ; 

Have  you  aught  else  to  order ;  for  this  instant 

I  make  my  best  speed  to  Vienna  ;  place 

My  bleeding  sword  before  my  Emperor's  throne, 

And  hope  to  gain  the  applause  which  undelaying 

And  punctual  obedience  may  demand 

From  a  just  judge.  [Exit  Butler* 


SCENE  X. 

To  these  enter  the  COUNTESS  TERTSKY,  pale  and  disordered.    Her 
utterance  is  slow  and  feeble,  and  unimpassioned. 

OCTAVIO.  (meeting  her.) 
O  Countess  Tertsky  !     These  are  results 
Of  luckless  unblest  deeds. 

COUNTESS. 

They  are  the  fruits 

Of  your  contrivances.     The  Duke  is  dead, 
My  husband  too  is  dead,  the  Duchess  struggles 
In  the  pangs  of  death,  my  niece  has  disappeared. 
This  house  of  splendor,  and  of  princely  glory, 
Doth  now  stand  desolated  :  the  affrighted  servants 
Rush  forth  thro'  all  its  doors.     I  am  the  last 
Therein  ;  I  shut  it  up,  and  here  deliver 
The  keys. 

OCTAVIO.  (with  a  deep  anguish.) 

O  Countess  !  my  house  too  is  desolate. 

COUNTESS. 

Who  next  is  to  be  murdered  ?     Who  is  next 
To  be  maltreated  ?    Lo  !  The  Duke  is  dead. 
The  Emperor's  vengeance  may  be  pacified ! 
Spare  the  old  servants  ;  let  not  their  fidelity 
Be  imputed  to  the  faithful  as  a  crime — 
The  evil  destiny  surprised  my  brother 
Too  suddenly  ;  he  could  not  think  on  them. 

OCTAVIO. 
Speak  not  of  vengeance  !     Speak  not  of  maltreatment  I 


666  COLERIDGE  'S  POEMS. 


The  Emperor  is  appeased  ;  the  heavy  fault 
Hath  heavily  been  expiated — nothing 
Descended  from  the  father  to  the  daughter, 
Except  his  glory  and  his  services. 
The  Empress  honors  your  adversity, 
Takes  part  in  your  affliction,  opens  to  you 
Her  motherly  arms  !     Therefore  no  farther  fears! 
Yield  yourself  up  in  hope  arid  confidence 
To  the  Imperial  grace  ! 

COUNTESS,  (with  her  eye  raised  to  heaven.} 

To  the  grace  and  mercy  of  a  greater  Master 

Do  I  yield  up  myself. — Where  shall  the  body 

Of  the  Duke  have  its  place  of  final  rest  ? 

In  the  Chartreuse,  which  he  himself  did  found 

At  Gritschin,  rests  the  Countess  Wallenstein  ; — 

And  by  her  side,  to  whom  he  was  indebted 

For  his  first  fortunes,  gratefully  he  wished 

He  might  sometime  repose  in  death  !     O  let  him 

Be  buried  there.     And  likewise,  for  my  husband  s 

Remains,  I  ask  the  like  grace.     The  Emperor 

Is  now  proprietor  of  all  our  castles. 

This  sure  may  well  be  granted  us — one  sepulchre 

Beside  the  sepulchres  of  our  forefathers ! 

OCTAVIO. 
Countess,  you  tremble,  you  turn  pale. 

COUNTESS,   (reassembles  all  her  powers,  and  speaks  with  energy 

and  dignity.} 

You  think 

More  worthily  of  me,  than  to  believe 
I  would  survive  the  downfall  of  my  house. 
We  did  not  hold  ourselves  too  mean  to  grasp 
After  a  monarch's  crown — the  crown  d'd  fate 
Deny,  but  not  the  feeling  and  the  spirit 
That  to  the  crown  belong  !     We  deem  a 
Courageous  death  more  worthy  of  our  free  station 
Than  a  dishonored  life. 1  have  taken  poison. 

OCTAVIO. 
Help  I  help  !    Support  her  1 

COUNTESS. 

Nay,  it  is  too  late. 
In  a  few  moments  is  my  fate  accomplished.       [Exit  Countess. 


THE  DEA  TH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  667 

GORDON. 

O  house  of  death  and  horrors  ! 

[An  officer  enters,  and  brings  a  letter  with  the  great  seal. 

GORDON,  (steps  forward  and  meets  him.) 

What  is  this  ? 
It  is  the  Imperial  seal. 

[He  reads  the  address,  and  delivers  the  letter  to  Octavio  with 

a  look  of  reproach,  and  with  an  emphasis  on  the  word. 
To  the  Prince  Piccoloinini. 

[Octamo,  with  his  whole  frame  expressive  of  sudden  anguish^ 
raises  his  eyes  to  heaven. 

The  Curtain  drops . 


THE  END, 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

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